


Balance the Force: Galactic Gladiators

by Lilith Sedai (TAFKAB)



Series: Balance the Force [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Combat arena, F/M, Inspired by "The Running Man", Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Seduction to the Dark Side, Sexual Slavery, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 69,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai
Summary: Obi-Wan, more attuned to the Unifying Force than his master, believes his nightmares may be a warning about the future. Qui-Gon, preoccupied by the Living Force, disregards the warning.Reading order:  Galactic Gladiators, Rogue Jedi, Dark Apprentice, Uneasy Allies, Grand Master





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Rayphile for handholding and for putting up with all these dratted Jedi. Thanks to Elycia for more handholding and for being willing to squee. Thanks to Merry Amelie for beta comments and encouragement. Thanks to Ewan McGregor for Moulin Rouge, The Pillow Book, and Velvet Goldmine, and to Liam Neeson for Rob Roy. 
> 
> Reading order: Galactic Gladiators, Rogue Jedi, Dark Apprentice, Uneasy Allies, Grand Master
> 
> A glossary will be included at the end of every chapter of this story. It contains information to help you keep track of character names, places, obscure canonical things, stuff I invented and wanted to refer to without pausing for half a page to explain, and translations of Irish Gaelic. The glossary may contain spoilers for later chapters of the story.
> 
> To those who are speakers of a certain dialect or three: Please forgive me for naming the big cats after skyscrapers. Maybe it just means their claws and fangs are long enough to scrape the sky.

_Obi-Wan ran, mindless, breath rasping in his lungs. He fled through razor-whip fields of moon-silvered grass, dry blades lacing ribbons of blood across his forearms, his legs, and his face. He shoved through crowds of people, hard shoulders buffeting him from his path, bruising him, knocking him to his knees, blood staining the knees of his pants and stinging on his scraped palms. He ducked away from crowds, stumbling through alleys where noxious liquids splashed underfoot and squeezed between his bare toes, where broken glass caught the streetlights in a diamond spray and stabbed agony into his feet, making him limp, his footprints bloody now, and still he ran._

_He darted up a steep concrete stair, then stretched out his legs and sprinted, dredging up a last desperate burst of speed as he flew past a row of closed shops, his breath burning like white molten metal in his chest and a taste of copper souring his tongue. They were closer now, very close._

_He didn't look back, because if he did, he would slow down just enough that the claws could seize him, bite through his shoulders, puncture his lungs, and drag him in so that gleaming fangs could rip his throat open to the bone. He scrambled on, his strength fading, pain lancing through his feet and his chest. There was an escape; he knew there had to be. All he had to do was find it, but his mind felt thick, sick with terror. A terrible rasp of breathy laughter accompanied hot dank breath in his ear, and the claws closed on his shoulder, shaking him like a child's rag doll, sprawling him onto the pavement, where he screamed--_

Screamed and screamed and finally jolted horribly awake, staring into the shadows of his own room, flailing clumsily for a moment at the hand on his shoulder before he understood it belonged to his master. 

Qui-Gon had seated himself on the mattress calmly, unshakable, and his hands were warm and soothing as he gathered Obi-Wan in like a youngling, holding him and stroking his back silently as they waited for the adrenaline to ebb away. 

"The same dream again?" 

"Yes, master." Gradually Obi-Wan's shuddering subsided and his breath began to calm in his chest, his heart slowing reluctantly, his mind struggling to throw off the shroud of the dream. 

One part of his mind cataloged Qui-Gon's soothing touch, the warm strength and carefully leashed power of the arms that cradled him, but he felt so shaky it was impossible to appreciate the embrace properly. The dream still held him in its fist and the conscious world felt thready and surreal. 

"Calm yourself. Breathe and find your center," Qui-Gon murmured, his chest a soft tenor rumble against Obi-Wan's cheek. "Let your fear dissipate into the Force." 

"That's easy for you to say," Obi-Wan groused, his heart only half in the complaint, but he meant it more than he wanted to admit. The dreams seared his consciousness with a vividness that made reality feel thin and insubstantial by comparison. "What if the Force is sending me visions?" 

Qui-Gon sighed almost imperceptibly, but Obi-Wan's ear rested on his master's chest, his cheek pressed against the soft inflation and deflation. It spoke of his master's uncertainty and, possibly, of worry. 

"After all, the healers said the images did not seem sourced in any conscious trauma I have endured, past or present," Obi-Wan persisted. "Could it be the Force is showing me my future?" 

"Or a psychic projection from a Force-sensitive in distress, an echo of a cry for help answered long ago. We must not react to fears." 

"But Master, the Unifying Force is--" 

"--Is usually unreliable as a guide of actions. The future is uncertain. Inhabit the moment and center yourself in the Living Force, padawan." 

Obi-Wan bit back a sarcastic response; the dual nature of the Force was always a point of contention between himself and his master. Would Qui-Gon ever take his sense of the future seriously? Probably not, and though his master had a valid point about dwelling in the future distracting one from the moment, Obi-Wan was old enough now, self-confident enough, well-trained enough to believe that he might have a valid point, also, if he were ever allowed to make it heard. 

His right to be treated like an adult was hard to defend, however, given that he was still sweating with the terror of a dream and being cradled like a child. 

Qui-Gon shifted to relieve a cramped leg, and his hand slid along Obi-Wan's jaw, steadying his head, rasping against the stubble of beard that had grown as he slept. Unintentionally erotic, that sensation finally penetrated the haze that surrounded the young Jedi. He could not react quickly enough to sublimate the flare of liquid heat irresistibly piercing down through his belly to his groin. 

Qui-Gon remained impassive, but he smoothly lifted Obi-Wan away from his chest and helped him sit up on his own. Obi-Wan swallowed past a knot of embarrassment and frustration, then sighed deeply, trying to release the tension into the Force along with the lingering remnants of his dream-- before his indiscretion could grow even more humiliating. "Or it may be a cry that needs answering now, if we knew what to do." He would need to meditate on the dream. 

"Yes. Meditate on it later, to see if you can find clarity," Qui-Gon suggested. After a moment he rose, his knees crackling faintly, and stepped to the doorway. Light from the hall shone in a nimbus around his tall, muscular form, glowing in his hair and picking out highlights of burnished gold among the brown and silver mane. "But for now, dismiss it and live in the moment. Prepare yourself for the morning meal. It will be dawn soon, and for today's training, I believe you would benefit from performing a Serenity Seeking." 

Obi-Wan stifled a heartfelt groan. Not again! He hated that set of exercises and Qui-Gon knew it. "Yes, master." He carefully kept his dismay from his voice. 

Qui-Gon nodded satisfaction and slipped away, and Obi-Wan drew his knees up to his chin, glad of the chance to regain his composure. The sky outside was already shading from dull black to leaden grey, the inevitable strings of air traffic slipping along computer-controlled pathways of Coruscant's commuter grid in their endless silent ballet. 

In the 'fresher, he keyed the shower cubicle for a hard, needle-like spray and stepped into the steam. He turned his back against the powerful jet of hot water and sighed as it slowly began to relax muscles still drawn taut by the nightmare. He shook his head, his padawan braid snapping against the wall of the cubicle. Serenity was the single feature of the Jedi code that most challenged his abilities, and tonight he had failed not once, but twice, in his quest to achieve it. 

"There is no fill-in-the-blank, there is only the Force," Obi-Wan muttered, turning so that the water cascaded down his other shoulder. "Any given emotion leads to some other emotion which leads to yet another emotion which inevitably leads to the Dark Side." The litany was maddening: predictable, over-generalized, and deliberately obtuse. How could he believe in it when he could very clearly see the Jedi around him regularly experiencing and profitably directing their emotions? How could he accept that one of the most fundamental building blocks of the sentient psyche was inevitably unwholesome and must be strictly rejected, without exception? He ducked his head under the spray and lathered his short-cropped hair. 

It was like those maddening phrases taught to all the padawans, the sayings meant to take one out of oneself and thus put one at harmony with the universe. But instead of transcending his consciousness while entertaining the moment of inner silence that arose from the fact that there was no answer to questions like "What is the sound of one hand clapping," he must transcend the entire surface level of the Jedi doctrine and accept its inner contradictions. He must accept the paradox that while emotional response was inevitable and even healthy, it must be frowned upon, set aside and rationally considered, then governed in whatever way produced the most beneficial result (if one could decide what was a desirable outcome and what wasn't). He leaned his head back into the spray, rinsing, and blinked droplets out of his eyes. In his opinion, Jedi were not creatures of serenity; Jedi were creatures of powerfully controlled and selective emotion. 

Saying that to anyone would probably get him in trouble-- even thinking it too loudly in the wrong company would probably earn him a thump on the shins from Yoda's gimer stick. But he had a feeling that, even so, Yoda would be pleased with his pragmatism. He could picture the little master glaring up at him after delivering the reprimand, mouth pinched as he tried not to smile, the tips of his ears giving him away in spite of himself as they lifted with amusement. 

"Feel, don't think; use your instincts!" He looked down at the soap in his hand as he scrubbed his chest. That was one of his own master's favorite teachings, and it contradicted all of the above quite neatly. However, Qui-Gon didn't seem to use it any more consistently than the other Jedi achieved their passionless ideal. He especially didn't use it when interacting with Obi-Wan. 

Perversely, Obi-Wan decided to take that teaching as his guidance for the day. After all, he was in for a miserable morning of sorting sand and other mind-numbing tasks that some pompous old pedant centuries ago had set as the standard curriculum for soothing agitated padawans. Evidently the man had been misinformed that boredom was synonymous with serenity. 

The one thing Obi-Wan knew about serenity was that it was all but impossible for him, especially where his master was concerned. He did not want to be indifferent to Qui-Gon Jinn. 

He slid the soap down his body, enjoying its slickness and the silky texture of his own muscular belly. His instincts said he needed to feel, most certainly. And if he really wanted to waste time on technicalities, he could explain masturbation away quite tidily with a number of perfectly orthodox Jedi rationalizations. It would help dissipate the residual muscle tension from the nightmare, for example. 

Enough effort wasted on thinking. 

Obi-Wan wrapped his hand loosely around himself, cradling the soap lightly against his skin. His body obliged him enthusiastically, his cock beginning to swell and fill. 

He stroked lightly, luxuriant, watching the way the skin slid along his stiffening shaft. He hummed softly, the low sound resonating in the enclosed space. So good. He didn't get to do this often enough; most of their missions didn't provide many opportunities for private time, and despite a few secret fantasies to the contrary, he was not about to start tossing off in front of Master I-Only-Use-Mine-for-Pissing. 

He smiled, tongue sliding out and licking a droplet of water from his lips. Lack of privacy was a two-edged sword, and it was one he had found as profitable as it could be frustrating. Occasional nudity was inevitable when lives were so closely intertwined, and by the Force, when it came to nudity, Qui-Gon had acres of it. 

Obi-Wan purred, fingers tightening, and braced his palm against the hot, wet wall of the cubicle. Maybe he _should_ start tossing off in front of Qui-Gon. If he did, maybe his master wouldn't be able to put him off so casually. Obi-Wan would tease him without mercy-- he would moan, like _this_ , sliding his thumb around the tip just so, spreading the gleaming fluid that welled there. He would squeeze, like _that_ , and tilt his head back, making water from the shower send gleaming trails over his face and his throat, tracing down his chest and around his nipples. 

If he did that, perhaps Qui-Gon's eyes would follow him, and Obi-Wan would know only because he glimpsed their hot gleam, likely from behind the shielding curtain of Qui-Gon's hair. But Qui-Gon would not look away. His tongue would slip out of his mouth and moisten his lower lip; perhaps his teeth would also sink into it as he watched Obi-Wan toss his head, sending a spray of water arcing gracefully from his braid. 

Obi-Wan moaned and speeded his strokes, his thighs sliding together sensually as he shifted his feet. Behind his facade of carefully cultivated serenity, Qui-Gon's heart would race, and his own shaft would stiffen; he would be helpless to prevent it, captivated by the sound of Obi-Wan's quick, harsh breathing. And then Obi-Wan would moan his master's name-- the merest whisper, barely perceptible, and _please--_

_"Please, don't---!" The claws had him, rending; they ripped through his chest, splintering his ribs, and he watched his own lung collapse as they scythed through it, seeking his beating heart--_

Obi-Wan nearly shouted aloud at the unexpected intrusion into his fantasy, and his hand clenched painfully on himself. His erection withered promptly and he reeled, reaching out for balance. The door of the cubicle sprang open under his weight and he staggered against the wall, panting, shuddering as the cold tiles chilled his overheated body. 

He glimpsed his own face in the steam-smeared mirror; he looked much younger than his years-- his eyes wide with terror, his lip bitten, his cheeks flushed red with the heat. Surely that had not been a dream! 

Obi-Wan grimaced and steadied himself slowly, reaching out for calm, channeling away fear. It seemed Qui-Gon had not sensed his distress this time; likely Obi-Wan's self-indulgence had caused him to turn a blind psychic eye for the moment. Very well; Obi-Wan would not speak of the new vision until he had more evidence to present in defense of his case. 

He dried himself off and dressed swiftly, going out into the kitchen with his hair still wet. Preparing breakfast was his duty, one he enjoyed. It was not a difficult task; he would slice fruit. They should have protein of some kind-- scrambled eggs this morning; he didn't feel like spending the extra effort on making an omelette, and the only vegetables he had on hand were dried peppers. He put the kettle on to brew some of Qui-Gon's favorite spiced tea. His master was in the shower now, and Obi-Wan timed his preparations with the ease of long practice, familiar with his master's rhythms. He served the hot eggs just as Qui-Gon stepped out to take his seat at the table. 

Qui-Gon smiled at him faintly as he sat; apparently Obi-Wan's indiscreet reaction to being held and his self-pleasure in the shower were to be set aside just as firmly as his vision. 

"It smells delicious." Qui-Gon began to eat absently, scanning his electronic reader and sipping his tea. Obi-Wan noted that once again, he had not trimmed his beard. The omission tickled a curl of warm sensation through Obi-Wan; he liked the sharp contrasts between polish and roughness in the big man. 

"Thank you, master." He seated himself and picked up his fork. Perfectly polite, to a word, the two of them made a picture of serenity, the very model of proper Jedi. 

Obi-Wan addressed his attention to his plate but remained intensely aware of his master's presence, and he made a clandestine inventory of the familiar impressions as he ate: his master's long mane of hair, trimmed indifferently and pulled back with casual haste, always slightly unkempt, dark brown but touched with silver, now damp, hastily combed back and left to dry on its own. The untrimmed beard, not tended at all today but left coarse on his neck, made Obi-Wan's mouth water with the need to nuzzle in and rub his face against its bristles. 

Obi-Wan could look for hours at the way Qui-Gon sat with one elbow propped on the table, holding a forgotten slice of palu between his thumb and forefinger, ready to be bitten when he remembered. His hawk-like nose, broken long ago in a fight and badly set, dominated his craggy face and momentarily distracted the casual onlooker from Qui-Gon's incongruously soft, sensual mouth. His eyes, their striking blue deep and dark, were bright with intelligence as they flickered across the screen of the reader. His cloak and tunics, as much a part of him as a second skin, were just as rough and simple as the rest of him. 

His long and broad body, essentially masculine... Qui-Gon was built to a subtly larger scale than most humans, but his size never sat awkwardly on him. Jinn was more species than surname to him, Obi-Wan knew. Sometimes he wondered if all the Djinn were like his master; if they were, Force help anyone who tangled with them. 

And yet, for all his outward roughness, Qui-Gon's mind was quicksilver, and his aura shone of gold and green; his spirit was the essence of calm and his words were liquid honey, always chosen with the greatest care, expressed deliberately but lilting with the melody of his all-but-forgotten homeworld. His sense of humor was subtle and wicked. He could be as mild as milk or as harsh as stone, as tactful as the most skilled diplomat or as hard-headed and stubborn as a Corellian mud-goat. He was among the very best of the Jedi and was, as Yoda and the Council frequently complained, the least tractable. 

Women frequently found Qui-Gon Jinn just as irresistible as Obi-Wan did, but Qui-Gon was oblivious to them. And to men as well, as near as Obi-Wan could tell. And most especially, Qui-Gon was oblivious to love-struck padawan learners. Obi-Wan found it excessively annoying that his master had chosen apparent asexuality as his single point of perfect orthodoxy with the will of the Council. 

Feeling wry, Obi-Wan chewed his food with every outward evidence of enjoyment, but did not taste it, so lost was he in his thoughts. When Qui-Gon's comm unit chimed, it startled him and he nearly dropped his fork. He decided he had eaten enough, so he stepped away to the sink with his plate, delicately granting his master a measure of privacy to answer the communication. 

"Yes, Master Yoda." Qui-Gon paused, listening. "...I see. Of course. We will be ready at the appointed time." 

An assignment, then. Typically, Qui-Gon did not reveal more until he had signed off and tucked away his communicator. 

"The Serenity Seeking must be delayed. We are to be dispatched to Xinune." Qui-Gon leveled thoughtful eyes on Obi-Wan, his expression faintly speculative. "You remember King Tabare." 

Of course. Obi-Wan tilted his chin, acknowledging. "We helped him negotiate a fair treaty with the Trade Federation not long after you made me your apprentice." He also remembered Tabare's son, Tiran. Tiran had been a marvelous companion for a young Jedi and an education all to himself. Though spoiled and occasionally petulant, he had a lovely body and a passionate, engaging spirit. Between them they had used his and Obi-Wan's spare time, while the adults conducted endless mind-numbing debates, to explore the rather decadent city of Takat. It had been Obi-Wan's first delightful foray into the wonders of common pleasure dens and fleshpots. 

Qui-Gon had given Obi-Wan leave to explore with the prince, but he had not approved of having a drunken apprentice who weaved his way back to the palace long after his normal curfew, stumbling against the walls, singing loudly and off-key. Of course, he had decreed the inevitable disciplinary training exercise the next morning. Obi-Wan chuckled ruefully to himself as he dried the plates and tucked them away. Qui-Gon was nothing if not an effective teacher. He had appeared at Obi-Wan's bedside just before dawn slanted its first rays through their opulent rooms, and had relentlessly dragged his whimpering padawan from the cocoon of blankets where Obi-Wan had shrouded himself to escape the growing light. 

They had spent the few hours before the day's diplomatic negotiations quite instructively. Qui-Gon decreed they would spar with training sabers and Obi-Wan learned the absolute futility of attempting to defend against attack by a skilled opponent with his reflexive responses hopelessly sluggish due to the alcohol that lingered in his system. He could still remember the bruising thuds on his thighs and ribs as Qui-Gon's wooden blade flicked past his guard again and again, each blow driving another merciless spike into the titanic headache that already thumped remorselessly through his brain like an All-Terrain Armored Transport walker. 

Though that had been punishment enough to discourage repeated drunkenness, it was only half the exercise. Struggling with more abject desperation than success to control his treacherous guts, which kept clenching with punishing cramps and nausea while they fought? That was unspeakably worse. The object lesson completely convinced Obi-Wan of the dual folly of lowering one's guard during intoxication and allowing oneself to succumb to the physically debilitating after-effects of consuming too much alcohol. He had confined himself solely to sexual excesses thereafter unless he was safe at the Temple. 

By and large, Qui-Gon had remained outwardly neutral to Obi-Wan's preferred recreational activities other than arranging for him to attend a seminar on procreational control and warning his padawan that forming personal attachments was not the Jedi way. He needn't have worried; Tiran was a more than congenial bedmate, but Obi-Wan had never fallen in love with him, nor with any of the numerous other partners whose bodies he had shared with great enjoyment during all the years since. 

Bodies were only bodies. They were pleasant enough when properly used, but only one man would ever hold Obi-Wan Kenobi's heart and soul in his keeping, and that man was indifferent to his favored status. Obi-Wan stifled a sigh. 

"Tabare has requested our assistance with a personal matter, padawan," Qui-Gon continued. "While this is hardly common procedure, his close ties to Chancellor Valorum and our personal history with the family both dictate our cooperation." 

Qui-Gon drummed his long, blunt fingers on the edge of the table, a rare sign of irritation. "Tiran has left his father's house and cannot be located. He and his father disagreed over an arranged marriage designed to consolidate the family's base of power with a rival faction and assist in the preservation of peace on Xinune. Tabare hopes that you and I may find Tiran and that we will be able to persuade him to return home and accept his intended." 

Qui-Gon's eyes measured Obi-Wan narrowly as he spoke. Obi-Wan felt himself flush slightly in spite of all he could do. 

"He should not have to marry if it is not his wish." Obi-Wan kept his tone mild and unassuming. 

"It is the will of his father," Qui-Gon shrugged. "It will do much to further the cause of peace." 

"But at what cost to Tiran?" Obi-Wan retrieved Qui-Gon's empty plate and mug, rinsing them and tidying away the last traces of their breakfast. 

"Tiran is of royal blood; his responsibilities to his people dictate that his choices are not always his own to make. It is the will of the Force that he is who he is, and he must walk the path that is set before him." 

Obi-Wan knew this was so; however, he did not like it. As a Jedi he had chosen his own path and privations; however, Tiran had been born into his responsibilities and granted no chance to choose. But this was not the proper time to debate the place of fairness within the will of the Force, so he kept his thoughts to himself. 

"I wonder if your feelings are perfectly clear on this matter," Qui-Gon pressed Obi-Wan patiently. 

"I'm not jealous of Tiran's marriage plans, if that's what you're asking." Obi-Wan stepped around Qui-Gon's chair and into his room, pulling out his travel pack, pondering his selection of clothing and equipment. 

"You could be instrumental in persuading Tiran to accept his destiny." Qui-Gon leaned his long, rangy body against the doorframe, watching Obi-Wan. "If you have developed an attachment--" 

"My forbidden attachment to Tiran is limited to a rather shallow, if cordial, friendship, I'm afraid. Hardly a debilitating passion." Obi-Wan managed not to roll his eyes. At times like these, the minute scrutiny to which his emotional state was subjected nearly drove him mad, though he knew Qui-Gon meant well. A wistful heart might read Qui-Gon's persistence as jealousy, but such a thing was unlikely. Of course, even if it were true, Obi-Wan would not know. Qui-Gon Jinn was legendary among the Jedi for more than his skills with a lightsaber-- he was also unsurpassed in the art of reading subtle emotional cues in others and in the practice of concealing his own. 

Obi-Wan knew from long experience the pointlessness of attempting to penetrate his master's calm facade, but he glanced sidelong at Qui-Gon anyway. Sometimes a visible effort to conceal was a clue of its own. Sure enough, his master's body betrayed a subtle message that he was effacing something-- Qui-Gon's arms were folded, though he wore the mantle of calm like a cloak. Unfortunately, Obi-Wan had no idea what that oh-so-placid look concealed. 

Qui-Gon offered no further comment but did not withdraw; when he did not speak again, Obi-Wan turned back to his pack and resumed sorting his travel gear. "When is our presence required?" 

"A transport will wait for us on landing platform six in two hours." Qui-Gon was still watching him, implacable; his impassive regard very nearly made a spot between Obi-Wan's shoulder-blades itch. 

"I shall meet you there." Obi-Wan made the implicit request for solitude polite but firm, reaching into his closet to select from his small collection of civilian garments. 

After a moment he felt the itch dissipate, and when he looked up again, Qui-Gon had gone. 

*****

Obi-Wan arrived punctually at the landing platform as was his custom; the transport had just begun to settle, engines roaring and servomotors whining as it extended its landing claws. The long hatch ramp began to whine its way down even before the ship touched the platform. Qui-Gon was nowhere to be seen at first, but as the transport touched down, boarding ramp grounding itself with a shuddering thump, he arrived from within the Temple with his pack slung casually over his arm. 

Though the Jedi master seemed unhurried, his long legs only took a few strides to cover the distance between the lift and the ramp. Obi-Wan fell in behind him as he boarded, idly watching the hot exhaust currents flip his master's hair around his shoulders. Two more people trotted with puffing haste in Qui-Gon's long-limbed wake, Temple staff in their simple tunics. They pushed a repulsorlift bearing a large and sturdy crate. Obi-Wan stepped up beside his master, raising a questioning brow as they directed the crate onto the ship and disappeared toward the hold. 

"What in the world is that?" But as he spoke the truth struck him, and the corners of Qui-Gon's mouth lifted in spite of itself. The Jedi Master's eyes danced with mischief. Qui-Gon grinned at him, and he groaned aloud. Of course. Sand for the Serenity Seeking. It was going to be a long journey. 

*****

Three days later Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan arrived on Xinune and were swiftly escorted through Takat to the palace. 

They were assigned sumptuous quarters, and as Qui-Gon expected, they had hardly walked through the door when Obi-Wan kicked off his boots and flopped wearily onto one luscious, wide bed festooned with brightly embroidered pillows and soft fluffy coverlets. 

"It feels like falling into a cloud," Obi-Wan groaned. He rolled over onto his back, eyes closed in bliss. Qui-Gon halted in the doorway to the bedchamber and held himself absolutely still, only his eyes moving as he beheld the vision before him, listening to Obi-Wan groan out loud at the sheer pleasure of clean, soft bedding. Too often the best available bed for a Jedi was oozing swamp mud or chilly steel deck plates. 

"Comfortable?" Qui-Gon made sure his voice was jovial. In truth, it wasn't difficult to do; his padawan was beautiful, and Obi-Wan had performed very satisfactorily in his duties on the way to Xinune despite his complaints. 

"It's better than sand." Obi-Wan groaned. "Sometimes I think you'd like to see me buried in a desert for the rest of my days!" 

Qui-Gon felt the corners of his lips twitch, and he allowed himself to experience a distinct sense of satisfaction. When Obi-Wan mastered coarse sand, he planned to start drilling the lad with particles of smoke. 

Obi-Wan cracked open one eye, looking at him suspiciously. "I never want to see sand again, not even on a tropical beach." 

Qui-Gon arched a brow at him, unable to suppress the faint smile that played on his lips. "If you don't practice, how will you improve your mastery of serenity?" It was easy for Qui-Gon to see that the finite limitations on his skill irked and frustrated Obi-Wan. "Lifting ten thousand grains at once and controlling each individually to move it into an orderly pattern is quite a respectable accomplishment for a padawan of your years." 

Obi-Wan opened the other eye, narrowing them to glint at him dangerously. "When you can lift hundreds of thousands and make moving mandalas in color?" He ran a hand idly down his chest to his belly and back up to press the flattened palm over one nipple. 

After a moment's contemplation, Qui-Gon judged the movement an innocent one. Fortunately for their training relationship, Obi-Wan had never pressed the issue of his growing desires. It was torment enough resisting the lad even without an overt attempt at seduction. Qui-Gon's earnest hope was to evade the issue indefinitely. 

"That's the difference between being a Jedi Padawan and being a Jedi Master," Qui-Gon responded, ignoring the sensual gesture. "Discipline and experience, serenity and fine control." He narrowed his eyes, holding Obi-Wan's gaze to be certain his apprentice was paying attention. "I have spent many decades, beginning long before you were born, honing the control it takes to channel my energies in harmony with the Living Force. To achieve control of the world outside yourself, you must govern the world within, accept the energies inside you, and choose to channel them productively. The more of your focus and energy you devote to the Force, the more your skills will grow." 

"If you follow that train of logic to its ultimate conclusion, sitting still and never moving again while focusing your entire being on the Force would make you all-powerful." Obi-Wan's tone was dismissive, and he drew up one knee, his eyes wandering up to study the lacquered patterns of the ceiling. 

"Some Jedi have made that choice and passed into the Force accordingly. At one with the Force, they are indeed all-powerful." His thought trailed away as Obi-Wan unhooked his belt and began shouldering out of his tunic. 

"All powerful and quite dead into the bargain," Obi-Wan pointed out, voice muffled behind a tangle of cream-colored cloth. He tossed it lazily at the floor and lay back again, hooking one thumb into the waistband of his leggings in a way that made Qui-Gon's mouth go dry. He was both maddeningly beautiful and perfectly oblivious to the threat he posed to Qui-Gon's control. So very, very young, still burdened with all the fire and passion that marked the turbulent span of adolescence, Obi-Wan was not yet capable of understanding Qui-Gon's position and his choices. 

Bared except for leggings, Obi-Wan squirmed against the silk coverlet and sighed with blatant hedonism at the sensation of the smooth fabric against his skin. Qui-Gon did not betray himself with so much as a flicker of expression, but let it all wash over him like water over stone. Obi-Wan must believe him quite bloodless if they were to survive this... phase... intact. 

"Complete abnegation of self through meditation is a course of action I do not condone for you at present," he agreed easily. "And yet if you would grow to be a great Jedi, more of your focus is required." Exercising considerable restraint, he did not point out that many of the greatest Jedi warriors, philosophers, and peacekeepers had chosen a path of celibacy, channeling their sexual energy and using it to facilitate their greatest works of mind and body. 

Obi-Wan had not Qui-Gon's skill with masking his temper; visibly nettled at the implication that he had insufficient focus, he let his lips pinch tight. 

Before his apprentice could settle on a sally designed to prolong their verbal sparring and inadvertently obligate Qui-Gon to continue watching him molest the bedding, the Jedi Master levitated his apprentice's pack over to the bed and dropped it onto his belly, provoking a muffled "oof!" and a glare. 

"I saw that you selected clothing appropriate for undercover operations in the city," Qui-Gon stated calmly, lightly passing over more accurate descriptions for the outfits Obi-Wan had concealed in his pack-- though the term _cat in heat_ sprang to mind. "We should start the search as soon as possible. The King will want to consult with us when he learns we have arrived." 

"Yes, master." Spurred to action, Obi-Wan launched himself out of bed and began digging in his pack. Qui-Gon, all too aware that his apprentice felt no shame in baring his fine young body to change clothes, decided discretion was the better part of valor, and slipped out. 

He did not need to see Obi-Wan's flesh to be tempted by it. Every golden-ivory inch of his padawan's lean, tight-muscled form was already branded on Qui-Gon Jinn's inner eye; it was a sculpture he daily helped his padawan tend. And while lust was Obi-Wan's most obvious weapon, it was also his weakest when it came to an assault on his master. Far more dangerous was Qui-Gon's own very natural regard for his padawan learner-- the bonds of respect and affection that arose and deepened whenever humans of compatible temperament associated closely together over time. Those powerful connections could not be purged-- not with self-pleasure, which Qui-Gon did not indulge, nor even with deep meditation and the aid of the Force. They simply were. They must be accepted and, as Obi-Wan himself would agree, directed productively. 

Obi-Wan and his master merely had very different ideas of what productivity entailed. 

Qui-Gon trailed his fingertips thoughtfully over the silken coverlets of the bed in his own chamber. It would indeed be comfortable-- almost sinfully so. And though his slowly aging bones would gratefully welcome a soft, warm bed, he rather believed Obi-Wan would benefit from an object lesson in asceticism. His own cloak would be his only bed, and though it was not as decadent and sumptuous as the one provided, it would still be far superior to many he had endured as a field operative. The thick pile of the carpet and the well-heated air were luxuries enough. 

He laid his cloak out next to the wall and put his pack beside it. Half a dozen mirrors hung on the walls. He caught sight of himself in one briefly as he worked. He dismissed the image just as rapidly. Appearances were unimportant. 

A whisper of sound behind him announced Obi-Wan's presence; he turned and found his padawan waiting in the doorway. Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon's simple pallet and chuckled wryly to himself but did not comment. Qui-Gon immediately noted that Obi-Wan wore his usual cloak, but he had changed the clothing he wore beneath it. Qui-Gon studied him for a moment; he wore black under the robe, a lustrous gleam visible in a narrow strip through the cloak's parted front-- the smooth hide of some hapless beast, well-tanned and sumptuous. Soft suede boots peeked out from the hem. 

Qui-Gon realized he was perilously close to staring. He turned away, experiencing a moment's remorse to realize that, while his own appearance mattered little to him, Obi-Wan's evidently mattered a good deal more. He filed the inconsistency away for future meditation and straightened his spine. Obi-Wan stood aside for him to pass and they strode out together to meet the king. 

*****

Tabare had not changed much. His paunch had expanded slightly and his hair was visibly thinning on top, but his glittering eyes were still keen with intelligence and his beringed fingers were deft and decisive on the keyboard of the comm panel that swiveled in front of his throne. 

"Master Jinn. Padawan Kenobi. Be welcome! I trust that your rooms are to your liking?" He clasped each of their hands in turn, and Qui-Gon observed that the wrinkles around his eyes were deeper, the tension in his expression hinting at sleepless nights of worry. 

"Quite," Qui-Gon bowed. "We are grateful for your hospitality. What information do you have for us concerning your son?" 

"Tiran vanished at the start of the lunar cycle a day before the formal announcement of his betrothal was to be made public. His rooms were undisturbed except for the removal of several prized possessions-- his comm pad, family holos, a sum of credits adequate to provide for him through a prolonged absence, and some clothing." Tabare shook his head ruefully. "We disagreed, of course, about the marriage. Our final conversation was quite confrontational. But that is in the report you should already have seen." 

Qui-Gon nodded. "What additional information have you gathered?" 

"He hasn't returned to the palace and there's no sign of him in his favorite haunts. At least, not the ones I know about." Tabare tried to minimize his display of anxiety, but his face grew even more haggard and he wrung his hands, twisting the ruby ring on one forefinger. "I've worked the palace guards and the local enforcement agents as hard as I dared, but there's no sign of him. He hasn't used his comm key codes or his credit vouchers or left any other electronic imprint-- there's no record of him on any palm locks or voice identification sensors and computer scans don't turn up his face on any public surveillance media." 

"In other words, Master Jinn, I have no information. He might have left the planet that first night, but if he did so, no port security device recorded his activity. And if he did so afterward, he was well-concealed. All extra-planetary craft have been scanned and anomalous readings investigated before they were granted permission for liftoff. I've had his friends watched and no leads have emerged. It is as if he simply ceased to exist." Tabare's voice trembled and the flow of words ceased. 

"May we see his rooms?" Qui-Gon inquired. "We may be able to pick up traces of his aura in the Force." 

"Certainly," Tabare withdrew an access key from his voluminous sleeve. "I left them undisturbed after our initial search. He's stubborn; I feared it might come to this." He led them down a long corridor, their footsteps tapping on slick marble floors and echoing in the high-vaulted ceilings. "I'm not insensible of the honor your presence does me, Master Jinn. The Jedi are kind to indulge an old man who is afraid for his only son." 

"The Jedi live to serve, Your Majesty," Qui-Gon said smoothly. 

Tabare eventually halted before an ornate door, its rich wooden panels inlaid with deep blood-red gems and gold leaf. Qui-Gon stood aside when it opened and Obi-Wan took his cue. He walked inside alone, pulling back his hood to better extend his senses. Qui-Gon reached and closed the door behind him, shutting himself and the king out in the hall. 

"My padawan's prior dealings with your son should increase his sensitivity to Tiran's Force aura," Qui-Gon explained. "I barely knew your son, but Obi-Wan and he were... quite closely associated." 

Tabare chuckled ruefully. "I remember. Tiran was inconsolable when you departed. He moped about the palace for weeks." Tabare studied Qui-Gon for a moment, visibly considering his next remark. "That's why I asked for you specifically. Tiran prefers the company of other men. I believe it is one factor in his rejection of his betrothal. I hope it is also a factor that will prompt him to reveal his whereabouts to Padawan Kenobi." 

Qui-Gon nodded. "That is my hope as well, I must conf--" A cry, barely audible through the heavy wooden door, froze the words in his mouth. He wrenched the portal open faster than thinking, darting through to find Obi-Wan crouched on the floor, panting, quite alone. 

"Padawan!" Qui-Gon called, truly alarmed; Obi-Wan's emotions were a twisted jumble of terror and pain. He flinched away from Qui-Gon instinctively, rolling to his feet and tensing to fight, his eyes glittering with terror for a long moment before his shoulders slumped and he let his arms fall. 

Tabare stood blinking at them both from the doorway, distressed; Qui-Gon raised a hand, palm out, to warn him to stay as he was, then ignored him and stepped forward, pressing the other against Obi-Wan's forehead. _Claws. Blood._

"The nightmare," Qui-Gon realized. 

"More of a daymare this time." Obi-Wan tilted his head at the window, where half the planetary star still hovered above the horizon. 

Qui-Gon frowned, troubled; his Force sense clamored a warning at him, and he forced himself to settle into the moment. "What happened?" 

"I put myself in a meditative trance to reach out for Tiran's trail," Obi-Wan confessed reluctantly. His blue eyes rose somewhat guiltily to Qui-Gon's. "Instead, the vision came." 

"I thought this was behind us. Is this the first time since the nightmare we discussed on Coruscant?" His padawan's guilty look said it was not. "You've concealed it from me?" 

"You believed it was unimportant, Master." Obi-Wan straightened with simple dignity. 

"I may have been mistaken." Qui-Gon suppressed annoyance, both with Obi-Wan and with himself. "When has it come?" 

"In the shower the morning after the last dream," Obi-Wan admitted reluctantly. "I wasn't meditating, but I was... distracted." 

Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh, knowing full well what had preoccupied his padawan. "And other times?" 

"Once on the transport. I was in deep meditation, counting sand, and I was able to break the vision and recover, though I had to restart my count. You were displeased with how long it took me to finish, if you recall." 

"You should have spoken," Qui-Gon admonished him, frowning. His intent to inquire after Obi-Wan's meditations on the meaning of the dream had slipped his mind. His lapse was unpardonable. 

"Forgive me, my master." Obi-Wan cast his eyes down to the floor. 

Qui-Gon considered his padawan for a moment before judging Obi-Wan's shame punishment enough for his silence. "Forgive me, as well. Let us try together to seek Tiran's presence. I will assist you. Should this... vision... return, I want to know immediately." 

Obi-Wan acquiesced, lifting his chin and composing himself for a shared trance; Qui-Gon hesitated minutely. More than three years had passed since he first began to avoid unnecessary mental contact with Obi-Wan. He could set aside his apprentice's feelings, but he had no wish to provide Obi-Wan access to his own unsettled emotions through imprudent telepathic intimacy. Still, this nightmare worried him and he would not risk further neglect of his padawan's psychic safety. 

Qui-Gon prepared himself with some care, then lifted his hand lightly to Obi-Wan's face and closed his eyes, cautiously merging his consciousness with Obi-Wan's through their training bond. 

Obi-Wan's mind and spirit were warm and familiar-- he crackled with energy, impatience, and insight. But as Qui-Gon had expected, Obi-Wan's desire for Qui-Gon was everywhere, shining brightly, surging with exuberant joy in response to his presence. Qui-Gon very nearly gasped aloud; the feelings were much stronger than the last time he and Obi-Wan had shared their thoughts. And worse, desire was not their limit. 

Qui-Gon felt as though he had unwittingly seized a naked electrical cable. The sheer overwhelming force of Obi-Wan's sweetness and affection arced and snapped over him, a siren song calling inexorably to the carefully buried depths within Qui-Gon's own heart. Beckoned so intimately, Qui-Gon's suppressed emotions flared in response and built. They too were stronger than he had let himself realize, he understood with sudden dismay. They threatened to overwhelm every barrier he had so carefully put in place, ready to explode like a supernova and reveal his love. 

"Control yourself, padawan," Qui-Gon snapped, his voice tight with strain, feeling his own control rapidly slithering through his grasp as his emotions burned away interior layers of psychic defense like tissue. "Focus on the task at hand!" Exerting a titanic effort, he caught hold of the cascading reaction inside himself and swept the feelings into a tight compartment in his mind, shielding it thrice over. Force curse it, had he moved quickly enough? 

It seemed he had. Embarrassment swept through Obi-Wan, a smothering blanket, and contrition followed swiftly with resolve in its wake. Obi-Wan fed the emotions away into the Force. Mercifully, the overwhelming electricity went with them. 

"I am sorry, master." Obi-Wan cast out clumsily, redirecting his focus toward Tiran. 

Qui-Gon reached for calm; he found barely enough to compose himself and nurtured it until it grew. Then he expanded the energy to include Obi-Wan, encouraging his padawan's attempts to reach serenity and soothing the tangle of energy their connection had provoked within the Force. 

It took time to center them and find a meditative trance. It took longer still to soothe the chaotic ripples the explosive contact had created in the Unifying Force. Qui-Gon wondered if they had damaged the faint traces of Tiran's psychic resonance beyond repair, but even as he began to despair, Obi-Wan's keener sense of the prince curled around a tendril of Force and pursued it. 

"He was frightened, angry." Obi-Wan spoke, his voice low and throaty. "He did not mean to return here." Obi-Wan pulled toward the window and Qui-Gon trailed him, maintaining their connection, working to channel passive energy and amplify Obi-Wan's own natural abilities. "He gathered his belongings, then stood here until he saw-- a signal? A person? Something. Then he went out." Obi-Wan's eyes opened and looked straight into Qui-Gon's; a flush rose in his cheeks and he looked away. "He meant to go to a nightclub. I think I know which one." 

Qui-Gon tucked his arms inside his sleeves. Obi-Wan's eyes flickered down, noting it, and Qui-Gon realized the gesture had inadvertently betrayed some fraction of his unease. Obi-Wan's eyes returned to his and hesitated there a second too long, a faint line forming between his brows. A curious expression, almost calculating, gleamed in the blue-laser depths of his eyes, but after a pause he released Qui-Gon's gaze and moved away, turning to Tabare. Slowly Qui-Gon exhaled a breath he had hardly been aware of holding. 

"Your Majesty, the trail is cold, but I can follow it. May I have your permission to investigate beginning at the Blue Bantha nightclub?" 

The king nodded eagerly, and Qui-Gon gestured Obi-Wan to precede him as they left the rooms. As he did, his Force sense murmured, twining soft tendrils of warning: danger still gathered. Perhaps it was associated with the dream; perhaps it was not. 

"Shall I accompany you, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon murmured on impulse, stepping near to his apprentice's shoulder. 

Obi-Wan's eyes darted a glance at him, flashing up and down, and a wry smile curled the corner of his mouth. "Qui-Gon, the Blue Bantha is a specialty club. You would stand out like a Tusken raider in a crowd of Jawas." 

Qui-Gon pursed his lips; he didn't like that comparison. "I could obtain the proper clothing." 

"So you could. You would still stand out. Besides, there may be no time for delay, and I'll need the flexibility afforded by operating alone." Obi-Wan's eyes were opaque though his expression seemed polite enough. 

"Very well, then." Qui-Gon acquiesced with ill grace. "But if you should experience a return of the vision, or if you sense danger, I want you to pull back and call for me. I'll be waiting." 

"I will," Obi-Wan promised. "Count on it." 

They arrived at the kitchens after winding through a maze of hallways and levels. Bypassing ovens and storerooms, Tabare led them to the servants' exit. Obi-Wan shouldered out of his demure, concealing Jedi cloak and passed it to Qui-Gon. He had dressed entirely in sleek black leather, tailored into an open sleeveless vest, a loose silver-studded utility belt, and a pair of breeches that might as well have been painted onto him. They revealed every ripple and curve of muscle he possessed-- and more. Qui-Gon blinked in spite of himself; Obi-Wan looked dangerous, almost feral, and something about the boots he wore rendered his stride predatory, eloquent of smoldering sex. 

Obi-Wan looked back only once, his hand on the door. "You're staring, master." His lips curved in an inexpressibly mischievous smile. Qui-Gon jerked his eyes to his padawan's and drew back, feeling his cheeks heat with a blush for the first time in decades. He folded his arms protectively over his chest. Obi-Wan raised both brows in astonishment at this, and Qui-Gon could have cursed. Too late, he forced his disobedient arms to lower to his sides. Incredibly, insolently, Obi-Wan winked at him. Then he was gone, strutting out into the night, his lightsaber gleaming from a sheath fastened low at his hip. 

"Well. That was an... unexpected transformation." Tabare latched the door and stepped back, hesitating, at a loss. "And now, I suppose, we wait." 

"Indeed." Qui-Gon inclined his head. "Lay your fears to rest, Your Majesty; Obi-Wan is quite capable." Of precisely what, he would not care to speculate-- not after that performance. He shook himself out of his momentary confusion. "Nevertheless, he is my responsibility and he is not yet a knight. Please hold a transport in readiness for me in case he calls for aid." 

"A speeder bike will be waiting on the private landing pad just beyond the balcony of your rooms." 

"Then I'll retire there and rest. I'll report to you when we have new information to share." He went straight to his rooms, but did not lie down on the pallet he had prepared for himself. Instead he folded his legs and sank down to meditate, seeking his center. The day had been filled with disturbing events that he must reconcile with the Force. Then what he must do remained to be seen. 

*****

Obi-Wan left the castle with crisp strides, flagging a taxi to take him to the club district in the city center. His instincts were yammering at him, insistent; something was amiss with his master. Qui-Gon's reaction to touching Obi-Wan's mind had been as interesting as it was unexpected. Even a Force-blind nerf-herder would have felt the volcanic swell of... some titanic reaction, abruptly confined and locked away. Qui-Gon's distraction had prompted Obi-Wan to goad him at the door... but realistically, the incidents augured nothing good. Probably Qui-Gon was merely on the verge of losing his long-held patience with his apprentice's unwanted feelings. Obi-Wan sighed. 

The trip was short and uneventful, and Obi-Wan was glad to leave his depressing thoughts behind him. He paid the cabbie and got out in front of the club, using a touch of Force here and there to facilitate a little convenient line-hopping. 

The Blue Bantha had not changed significantly since he last visited Takat. He still had to use a mind trick on the bouncer to get in; it wouldn't do to show his real identification even now that he was of age to enter legally. Inside the club still reeked of alcohol, the smoke from half a dozen exotic intoxicants, and overheated bodies. The clientele were still exclusively young males, nearly all of them humanoids. Many were dancing to a frenzied beat that had been amplified to a volume that made Obi-Wan's flesh vibrate on his bones and shook a fine haze of dust down from the walls and ceiling. 

Eyes turned to follow Obi-Wan as he made his way to the bar. Some gleamed with appreciation, some with jealousy, others with frank lust. Obi-Wan made a point of meeting those gazes with flirtation, cool challenge, or outright threat, as necessary-- some of that lust was responding to his air of comfortable wealth rather than to his good looks. 

He ordered a bottle of dark, stout ale and turned to face the room, scanning the crowd lazily as though seeking a hookup for the night. The Force swirled through the building in muddy, confused eddies, disturbed by the raw aggregate of positive and negative emotion in the place. It was hard to find clarity and focus on a single point to follow. Any traces of Tiran had been dissipated long ago by the violent flows. 

Waiting for the Force to guide him, Obi-Wan tipped the bottle to his lips and swallowed for show, though he let none of it enter his mouth. It was a pity he had business to attend; he didn't have a chance at leisure very often. Since he had spent the past several days bunking in a room with his master, it had been a long time since he tended to his body's needs. 

Setting his cap to wait for Qui-Gon was pointless. 

Obi-Wan smirked wryly. He and the other padawans used to joke about it; it was common among the Jedi for apprentices to develop crushes on their masters, and he and his friends used to work out their sexual frustrations by one-upping one another, speculating on what it would take to get their masters to succumb to a seduction. The rules of the game were simple and juvenile: you began by saying "My master wouldn't fuck me even if..." After that, it became a competition to see who could come up with the most ridiculous, extreme set of conditions. What had Obi-Wan said? He could recall the scene as if he were still there, Bant and Reeft and Garen all sitting on pillows in front of the couch in Master Tahl's quarters, half-drunk and laughing. 

"My master wouldn't fuck me even if he'd lusted after me since the moment we first met, if I stuffed him to the ears with the galaxy's most potent aphrodisiacs, if he learned he had to fuck me or we'd both turn to the Dark Side and die, and if he knew that only by fucking me could he save the entire universe from extinction. He wouldn't do it even then, not even if you offered me up to him on a golden platter, naked, tied up, pre-lubricated, begging for it, surrounded with marital aids, and if his only other choice was having sex ten times a day for the rest of his life with Yoda. On top," Obi-Wan murmured with a rueful laugh. That was it; that one had trumped all the others. His friends had laughed too, but agreed emphatically. Though they all hastened to assure Obi-Wan he was very desirable, Qui-Gon's control and his cool reserve were legendary. 

"No, thank you," Obi-Wan murmured to a young man who undulated up against him briefly, whispering a husky invitation to dance. "Perhaps later." He remained where he was, gazing around the room with the bottle cold in his palm. 

Rumor among the padawans had it that Obi-Wan's master was actually a virgin. Obi-Wan thought it might easily be true. His friend Bant was Master Tahl's padawan. She had confided in Obi-Wan that as part of Bant's sexuality training, Tahl had disclosed her own personal choices and the reasoning behind them. It seemed Tahl and Qui-Gon had considered becoming involved when they were new knights, but instead they had chosen celibacy and separation as the better way to serve the will of the Force. 

Obi-Wan shook his head. It wasn't a path he would ever want to choose for himself, but his own observations indicated that Qui-Gon never returned the slightest sexual interest to anyone, disregarding overtures with as much diplomatic tact or cold bluntness as he judged the situation required-- even using a mind trick if necessary. Maybe he was still in love with Tahl and simply had no intention of doing anything about it. He certainly showed no intentions of doing anything about Obi-Wan. 

Obi-Wan pretended to take another swig of his ale. The Force still swirled without leading him forward, but he could feel clarity hovering just outside the corner of his mind. He knew his patience should be rewarded soon. He settled in to wait, letting his mind drift. 

Of course, Qui-Gon's possible virginity had inspired Obi-Wan's feverish adolescent fantasies to reach dizzying heights. He couldn't restrain a wry smirk just thinking of them: the passionate student transformed into the wise and gentle teacher, the tables turned in every possible way. He had envisioned a thousand and one tantalizing possibilities for tender victory and even for bitter loss-- if they were losses that meant he first got to sample the pleasures Qui-Gon denied to everyone else, of course. They were only fantasies, but Obi-Wan was a realist. Even in his daydreams, he knew heartbreak was more likely than fulfillment. 

He had grown older, as all the padawans had, and as several of the masters had gently predicted the padawans all moved on-- except for Obi-Wan. His interest in Qui-Gon had never faded. Instead it strengthened. Where once he had felt awe and lust, now Obi-Wan also felt respect, desire, deep affection, and more love than he sometimes believed he could contain. 

The Force tickled lightly at his mind. A pattern of motion kept drawing his gaze. Breaking out of his reverie, he watched several men who had congregated around a booth cut into the wall of the club, near the north rear corner. He slowly became aware that the activity there was not the same simple, random ebb and flow the rest of the clientele displayed; one man reclined at the table and formed the nexus of a definite organization. No more than two or three other people were present there at any given time, but at least half a dozen men were using it as a base for their activities in the club. 

The single man who kept his seat at all times spoke to each of his companions. Then one of the other sitting men went out to wander through the area, often spending several minutes on the dance floor-- focusing on young men who, like Obi-Wan, were alone. The man would speak to a boy, or perhaps to two or three, but they did not dance, they did not come to the bar, and the men did not go with anyone up to the privacy cubicles located discreetly on the second floor. Instead, each man would return to the table only to go out again when his turn came. 

As Obi-Wan watched, he realized something else: the boys the men spoke to were going up to the privacy cubicles alone. Not all of them returned. When the insight formed, unease pulsed along the surface of the Unifying Force, and he could almost see the seething ultraviolet tendrils of darkness. Something distinctly unpleasant was happening to those boys. 

Time to investigate more closely. 

Obi-Wan pushed away from the bar, abandoning his fast-warming ale, and strode out onto the dance floor. Maybe one of the men would come to him. 

The music pulsed at him, insistent, as he started to move, falling in with the crowd. Sweat-slick limbs and swaying hips buffeted him; hot eyes met his and he let propriety slip away, reaching for abandon and finding it in the frenetic pulse of the beat. No measured, formal katas here-- just primal rhythm and thrusting motion, instinct and heat. Soon sweat slicked his chest and spiked his hair, whipping from his braid. Transcendent, this-- the opposite of serenity, connection to the Living Force through passion and sex and desperation and lust. 

Outwardly lost in the rhythm, he coolly tracked the purposeful men as they ranged about the club. One was watching him; he could feel the prickle of awareness in the Force, and he let the press of bodies shift him in that direction. The man caught his eye, smiled, and approached. His hand was cool on Obi-Wan's sweating shoulder, and Obi-Wan could smell something sweet and cloying-- cologne?-- wafting from the man's body before the cacophony of odors in the club overwhelmed it and carried it away. 

"You're too pretty to be all alone. " Manicured fingers slipped into a shirt pocket and Obi-Wan glimpsed a fat roll of credits as the man drew out a card, extending it to Obi-Wan between two fingers, smiling a smile of silk and promise. "Meet me upstairs for a drink?" 

Obi-Wan smiled greedily at the sight of the money. "By all means." He accepted the card, which had a number written on it, and the man slid away. Classic bait and switch, but the comforting weight of his lightsaber still hung at his hip, so Obi-Wan approached the stair with confidence. 

He climbed past giggling couples and through a pungent layer of smoke and flashing lights. The rooms were ranged around a square balcony on the level above the dance floor. Each cubicle had a number on it, so he went to the room number that matched his card, reaching out cautiously through the Force. No one was waiting inside. His sense of wrongness strengthened, but no concrete warning formed, so he stepped cautiously inside. A dim, dirty glow panel lit the place. He wrinkled his nose at the stained mattress that lay on a shelf on the left side of the alcove, leaving barely enough room to sidle in. 

Obi-Wan eyed the glow panel-- there was a surveillance camera behind it, no doubt; he could feel the faint hum of its motor. Of more concern was a vent in the ceiling; were they gassing the boys for easy kidnapping? He couldn't sense gas, but he would have to be careful. He held his breath automatically, stepping farther in. There might be a contact tranquilizer, maybe on the mattress, or... he focused on the glow panel, which seemed to be pulsing bright and dim, and he realized he could hear his blood roaring in his ears. Or... on the card! Too late, Obi-Wan understood the danger; his knees were already weakening and his mouth was going dry. He reached for his center hastily and speeded his metabolism to try to burn away the drug, but it was all he could do before he saw the floor coming up at him. With the last of his consciousness, he cried out: Master! 

Then the floor exploded against his forehead in a shower of sparkling pain and he knew no more. 

*****

Leaving King Tabare, Qui-Gon went into his room and seated himself in the lotus on his pallet, tucking his long legs up carefully. He wasn't as young as he'd once been and his knees resisted, but a lifetime of training meant he could still coax his body to obey. 

His spirit, however, was another matter. As he began to settle, the calm of meditation eluded him. How much had Obi-Wan perceived? It was impossible to know what had slipped. Perhaps nothing significant, even given Obi-Wan's behavior at the door. Obi-Wan could be capricious; his sense of humor was a central part of his personality, and it was one thing Qui-Gon loved about him. His padawan was still terribly young. As such he was prone to mercurial swings of mood-- and of hormones. His psyche was far more unsettled than Qui-Gon's, and he was far less able (or inclined) to control himself. The entire routine at the door might mean as little as his writhing on the silken coverlet of his bed. 

Qui-Gon sighed, feeling his energy vibrating erratically, well out of center. The day's events had left him more badly shaken than he had thought. 

He ran himself through a youngling's calming exercise: he was a lump of clay on a potter's wheel. With every breath, he envisioned firm, skilled hands pressing the clay, smoothing it, bringing it into balance. Only then could he become a fitting vessel for the Force. If he remained out of center, he would spin himself apart. 

It took a long time before he was smooth and serene, before he could begin to delve into himself and make himself a vessel, before he could fill himself with the Living Force. 

His meditations took focus as they deepened, singling out the common thread of his unease: his own treacherous responses to Obi-Wan. 

All his life Qui-Gon had been satisfied with celibacy. That included his relationship with Master Tahl, though it had been a source of some physical discomfort, especially when he was younger. But she had been a peer, not a padawan. In retrospect, Qui-Gon had to admit they had rarely enjoyed the kind of closeness he and Obi-Wan did. Only twice had they been paired for missions. Perhaps they had resisted their attraction because it was centered in their bodies, not in their minds. 

In practice, Qui-Gon realized, the most intimate relationship nearly every Jedi had was with his padawan. A padawan learner became the balance of his master in mind and body, and the two must work together in harmony. Obi-Wan was padawan and more to Qui-Gon. He was Qui-Gon's right hand, indispensable. He was the perfect balance to everything Qui-Gon embodied: Unifying Force to Living Force, deep connection to fierce independence, passion to serenity, warmth to reserve, youth to age. ....Raw sexuality to asceticism and celibacy. 

Qui-Gon could anticipate the very arguments that Obi-Wan would offer in favor of becoming lovers; he had already debated them with himself a thousand times. Obi-Wan would say passion with control was not harmful. Attachment already existed and could be balanced using responsibility, restraint, and a commitment to duty. Sexual energy could be channeled just as productively through gratification as through denial. There were dozens of variations on this theme, and for each Qui-Gon had an answer. Control of passion was hard to achieve; best not to over-burden it. Intense attachment was harder to restrain when duty demanded; better to keep attachment minimal. Mere physical gratification was not worth the risk; better to maintain equilibrium than to seek out peak experiences. 

Risk. The Force thrummed somberly within him, and as it resonated in his soul, Qui-Gon understood a fundamental truth about himself. Outwardly he spun in harmony with the universe, but his center was false. As Obi-Wan matured, he exerted an almost gravitational pull on his master. This made Qui-Gon's energy grow more and more distorted. The clay of him was more dense in some places than others because Obi-Wan's energy had concentrated it. No vessel made of such clay could endure. Qui-Gon might seem fit for his tasks, but he would warp and collapse when he was worked. 

Qui-Gon Jinn touched his center and found unexpected darkness there. Slow, insidious, by subtle degrees, fears were creeping through him. His attachment to his padawan had grown too strong even without a sexual component. Each day he grew more afraid of damaging Obi-Wan, darkening Obi-Wan, and ultimately losing Obi-Wan. It gave him no pleasure to know that he had been right when he resisted taking another padawan, but the point was moot: it was done, and it had altered him. 

Whether he acted on his desires or not, such persistent, gnawing fears had absolutely no place in the mind of a being who presumed to call himself a Jedi master. 

He must decide what to do about them; he must reclaim his center and re-assert his control. His emotions must be managed and his fears purged, whatever the cost. 

Qui-Gon opened his eye, and realized he felt perfectly calm with the coming of resolve. 

There was much to be done, if only he knew how he might reach his goal. Perhaps it would be sufficient to arrange a spirit-healing retreat for himself after they returned to Coruscant. Obi-Wan could remain at the Temple and work on his mastery of lightsaber forms; he would benefit greatly from the experience of combat with other Jedi. Meanwhile, Qui-Gon would profit from the isolation. He could use it to work through and come to terms with the emotional imbalances growing inside him. 

He was halfway to the comm unit when Obi-Wan's cry for help struck him, shattering his calm like glass. 

_I'm coming!_ he projected, but Obi-Wan's presence was already gone. Qui-Gon did not know how or why and had no leisure for reflection. He hardly felt the weakness in his knees, stumbling and recovering as adrenaline surged alongside the instincts that propelled him out onto the balcony and over the railing. 

The promised speeder bike waited on its small launch pad and he vaulted atop it, not waiting to settle into the seat before he kicked the throttle. Its engine screamed, G-forces kicking Qui-Gon in the chest, but he hung on with hands and thighs, clamping his body around the bike to reduce the drag of the wind. One foot slammed the throttle all the way down as he dove off the platform, his robes and hair streaming out behind him. He arrowed toward the city center, zeroing in on the psychic residue of Obi-Wan's desperate cry. 

The nightclub was an unimpressive concrete box, squat and ugly, with a flamboyant neon sign and an equally flamboyant line of patrons waiting for admission. Qui-Gon retained just enough subtlety to slow the speeder bike and bring it around to the back of the building, finding a steel loading dock where a battered hovercraft was parked. Men worked to unload the crates and cases of liquor piled in its belly. 

Qui-Gon flung himself off the bike almost before it stopped, stalking toward the door that led inside. 

"Hey! You can't-- " one of them called and reached for the blaster at his hip, but Qui-Gon barely noticed him, one hand channeling Force energy in his direction as though shooing away a gnat. 

"I can," he grated through clenched teeth, never looking away from the door. 

"You can," the man quavered, gaze wandering around in obvious confusion before he shook himself and returned his attention to his bill of sale. 

There was no sign of Obi-Wan, merely an empty room of the sort one might find in any bar like this-- impersonal and filthy, meant as a refuge for hasty couplings. Qui-Gon flung the door open so hard it rebounded off the wall, shuddering; he knelt on the floor, reaching out into the Force. Obi-Wan had fallen here and lain unconscious. Men had dragged him back out to the very platform where Qui-Gon's speeder bike now waited. 

He hesitated-- there could be significant benefit in investigating downstairs; someone might have insight or knowledge into what had happened-- but he was alone and time was of the essence. If he could catch up to whoever had taken his padawan, he could rescue Obi-Wan and the need to press his investigations here would become largely academic. 

Qui-Gon ran back out onto the dock, where the work boss now ignored him. He revved the speeder bike again, shooting skyward. He had Obi-Wan's trail now, the echo of his padawan's Force signature muted but reassuringly steady. He reached out to it, adjusting his course by instinct. 

The Force told him Obi-Wan was unconscious but uninjured, drugged. Qui-Gon leaned forward again, shifting gears in hopes of coaxing a bit more speed from the bike, which was already running full out. He thought he might make visual contact with the kidnappers at any time; the sense of his padawan was enticingly near. The course led directly toward a main artery of traffic flowing through the city; the kidnappers must plan to vanish into anonymity there. They were not even traveling particularly fast; likely they were not counting on their victim being a Jedi with a companion in hot pursuit. 

Qui-Gon decided he would single out the vessel and creep up on it without being seen, then overfly it. He would abandon the bike and drop down on the canopy to cut his way in, take the kidnappers prisoner, land the vessel, then call Tabare for assistance. 

But as he banked around a tall skyscraper and saw the glowing thread of traffic stretching out before him, his sense of Obi-Wan's presence simply winked out, leaving no trail to follow. 

Qui-Gon nearly shouted out loud in his frustration; an icy spear of terror struck his heart. He continued anyway, sliding the bike into an opening in the traffic flow, casting about in desperation for some trace of his padawan. He found none. He had no idea whether he was even flying in the right direction. He eased himself out of traffic and hovered over the roof of a nearby penthouse where a small garden gleamed like an emerald against the night. He reached for the Living Force contained within it, embracing the serenity and calm of growing things, but there was no message for him there. 

Obi-Wan might be dead or he might merely be shielded from the Force. Qui-Gon couldn't tell. 

He reached for the bike's comlink and signaled Tabare. 

"Yes, Master Jedi?" The king appeared on the small screen too quickly to have been sleeping; he looked weary but hopeful. 

"Someone has drugged and abducted my apprentice," Qui-Gon explained, terse. "I ask that you extend the security measures you have used in seeking Tiran to seek him as well." 

Tabare's face fell. "They won't get off this planet with him," he answered simply. "Do you think this is related to my son's disappearance?" 

Qui-Gon hesitated. "I don't know yet," he confessed, "but I will find out." He cut the connection and started the bike again, arcing back around the way he had come. He would turn the Blue Bantha inside out if he had to, but he was going to find Obi-Wan. 

Fear. It gnawed at his mind with alarming persistence, coaxing him to panic, inviting him to wallow in suffocating emotion. He shut it down savagely and reached for cold logic instead. The kidnappers were unlikely to have noticed his pursuit; he must be stealthy. He would not want to alert a larger organization to his investigation if he could avoid it. Back to the loading dock, then. 

The delivery vehicle had left by the time he returned, so he concealed his speeder bike on a nearby roof and leaped onto the top of the club, where he dialed his lightsaber's power cell emission down until the blade was only a few inches in length and needle-thin. He swiftly disabled the lock, easing the door open without sound and gliding into the upstairs hall. It remained as squalid as his earlier hasty impression had indicated. Scuffed black paint covered sagging plaster walls and every few feet another door punctuated the wall, some of the cubicles open, some occupied. Flashing lights illuminated the haze of smoke; the building shook with amplified bass. The room where Obi-Wan had been abducted was still empty. 

Qui-Gon felt the Force stir, so he faded back toward the open entry, reaching out lightly to confuse the mind of the approaching man to avoid notice. It was a strong young lad of Obi-Wan's age or perhaps a bit more. He stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Qui-Gon raised a brow, still hesitating in the shadows, but no one followed the young man up. After a time he came out again, looking sullen and angry as he stamped his way back downstairs. 

Qui-Gon frowned. Surely that was unusual. He ventured back out into the hall and moved around the U-shaped terrace; a room directly across from Obi-Wan's cubicle was empty. He slid inside, closing the door. Again he used his lightsaber on low power to drill a pinhole through it so he could observe. 

It happened again and again-- but then one man did not come out. Qui-Gon's enhanced senses heard a thump. Two men in nondescript coveralls suddenly appeared out of the adjacent cubicles and entered the one Qui-Gon watched. Hastily they emerged, dragging a limp body between them, and hauled it away to the loading dock. Then they returned to their positions. Now that he had a fix on what was happening, Qui-Gon could sense more wrongness downstairs. The men's energy was calm and confident; it was a smooth operation, well-coordinated and highly practiced. 

Qui-Gon grimaced. Again he needed to be in two places at once. He eased farther back inside his room and took out his comlink. 

"Your Majesty, I seem to have discovered a kidnapping ring," he spoke softly. "Young men are being taken from the Blue Bantha. I believe it likely your son and Obi Wan were both among them." 

Qui-Gon related the relevant details and the King promised to dispatch a discreet team to investigate, but Qui-Gon had no patience to listen. He waited, trying to maintain his calm, as the next few patrons came and went-- until another seemed to meet with approval. Like the last, this lad appeared particularly strong and athletic, and Qui-Gon wondered if those were the key characteristics in his selection. 

He let the two removing men resume their places before he emerged and lightly jumped across the open space between the sides of the terrace.

"The lock won't shut. Someone's tampered with it," he heard outside. "Low-power blaster fire or maybe an energy blade." 

"A blade. Jata told you that other one was a Jedi whelp. They never travel alone." 

"Send Bilam a warning--" 

Qui-Gon let them go no farther. He burst through the door, lightsaber flashing. A delicate stab fried the comlink one man held and a precise swing bisected the barrel of his blaster, still in its sheath. The second man, still frozen with shock, was disarmed and silenced just as swiftly. He scowled at Qui-Gon, trying to hold his eye, but the feint did not speak as loudly as the Force, and Qui-Gon slashed back neatly with one hand, catching the first kidnapper's throat. The man went down choking, blood bubbling from his lips. The second man balled hamlike fists and raised them at Qui-Gon, then thought better of it and let them drop. 

"Where are you taking these young men?" 

"I don't know. I just hand them over." He glanced at the humming green flame of Qui-Gon's lightsaber, then at his companion, who was still crumpled on the ground clutching his throat. 

"Who else is involved?" A shrug. 

"Sleep," Qui-Gon shoved Force at him and the man crumpled. He repeated the process with the other kidnapper, turning him on his side to keep his airway clear-- neither of these two would escape the justice he had coming. 

He could follow the transport with the kidnappers and their most recent acquisitions or he could strike here, where he was certain to find more prey. Qui-Gon cursed the lack of backup that crippled his search. But the King's forces were swift. He could sense Tabare's team gathering, preparing to storm the club from below, so he slid back inside. If he backed their move, he could ensure that no one else escaped. 

Two clients were nearing an alcove. Their eyes went wide when they saw him, but he ignored them. His priority was the other two kidnappers, both easily caught off-guard and sent to sleep with a mind trick. He dragged all four men into a single room and tied them there. When Tabare's team broke into the club he vaulted over the railing to join them. 

The patrons were quickly subdued, and Tabare's captain, an upright young woman with silvering blonde hair and an ugly keloid scar across her left eye, saluted him. "I am Kalari, captain of the King's Guard. Master Jedi, if you can truly hear a lie as they say, we will be much indebted if you would help us interview these people." 

Qui-Gon sighed. The transport's trail was cold already; worse, by the time everyone here could be queried and the innocent separated from the guilty, dawn would have come. But someone here would be likely to know where he could find Obi-Wan and rescue him, or at worst, retrieve his padawan's corpse and avenge him. He clamped down tight on that possibility, refusing to consider it, refusing to act on the flare of anger the possibility provoked. He would do the job that had been placed before him. 

"I've already subdued four of the kidnappers and left them bound in Room 6. If your men can take them into custody? Good. Let's begin." 

It turned out to be a specialty club indeed. Every patron and most of the staff were young men between sixteen and twenty-five, all human or humanoid, and all of them were homosexually oriented. The latter was did not concern Qui-Gon. Jedi who chose the route of attachment made their liaisons based on attraction to mind and spirit; gender of the body was often only an incidental factor. However, he sensed disgust ranging from mild to extreme in a number of Tabare's troops. 

Qui-Gon easily identified the innocent-- the relatively innocent, at any rate. Kids out looking for a connection he released immediately. Addicts he freed after planting a suggestion in their minds that they reconsider their life choices. But there were a few people present who were more serious criminals-- drug pushers, thieves, rapists, or murderers. Tabare's troops processed them efficiently and shipped them off for disposition with the city authorities. 

Last remained the kidnappers. It was easy to sense their guilt and fear; it had a particular flavor in the Force that matched the men he had incapacitated on the second floor. Investigation into their belongings showed several of them had been paid in gems and other commodities that would be salable on any one of a hundred worlds not necessarily limited to members of the Republic. 

One particular individual sent a vibration into the Force that left Qui-Gon's hackles raised and his intuition clamoring. The others had little knowledge; questioning and judicious mind touch showed that they knew little to nothing, but this one... he was not susceptible to the mind trick and he was the calmest of the bunch, glaring daggers at Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon reached out, sifting through the items the man had carried, which the guards had placed on the tabletop between them. He came up with the man's identification chip. It revealed that he was called Ruoto Millim and that he worked in the holovid business, producing entertainment programs for a large concern called Dramacore. 

"I know about Dramacore's programming." Captain Kalari looked at the man coldly. "Master Jedi, people die on their shows for no better reason than to amuse the audience. Volunteers are sent to arenas to battle monsters or put out on hostile planets without supplies or weapons. Holovid cameras follow to see how long they can survive. There's a heavy betting culture associated with the most popular broadcasts; we've had problems before in Takat with gangs of organized criminals putting out hits for non-payment of wagers." 

Obi-Wan's vision. Qui-Gon held himself absolutely still, resisting the urge to vent his kindling rage on the man, who sat back with arms folded, looking bored, neither confirming nor denying the accusations. 

"Dramacore has a signed contract and indemnity waiver from every contestant and we make our winners filthy rich." Millim was not flustered. "We also produce consensual erotic entertainment, both hard and soft core," he pointed out calmly. "It's our most popular product. I've been here tonight scouting for talent. Unfortunately, the locals are sadly lacking." 

"I have questions for you," Qui-Gon interrupted him, weary of his oily self-assurance. 

"And I would like to consult my solicitor. You can't hold me without proof on this world even if you are Jedi." Millim sat back in his chair, reaching out to the heap of his possessions that the guards had placed on the table. He selected a small pipe, loaded it, lit it, and blew the smoke in Qui-Gon's face. 

Qui-Gon folded his hands and looked at the man impassively. As a Jedi, he was not bound by local legal customs; as a Jedi Guardian sworn to serve the Senate, he had authority to act as he wished on any world in the Republic, up to and including the execution of those he found deserving. "We have the testimony of several witnesses, not to mention your associates." 

"You used your mind tricks on them." The man waved a hand theatrically at Qui-Gon to illustrate. "It won't stand up in court." 

"Which court is that?" Qui-Gon inquired politely. "King Tabare's court, where you would defend yourself from an investigation into the disappearance of his young son, a frequent client of this place? Or do you prefer a court of the Republic, where the word of a Jedi is automatically accepted as truth?" 

"The court of public opinion, for one. I can see to it that everyone in the galaxy knows how you've mistreated me. Everyone knows the Jedi are puppets of a corrupt administration," the man spat the words dismissively. "Nobody believes in your vaunted Jedi justice." 

"Where is the young Jedi who was taken from this place?" Qui-Gon ignored the insults; they did not concern him-- his only interest was in his padawan's welfare. 

"I don't know of any Jedi here tonight other than you." 

"A young man of your approximate height wearing a small ponytail and braid, dressed in black leather jacket, pants, and boots. Sandy brown hair, blue eyes." 

"I never saw anyone like that here." Again Millim spoke truth. 

"Who are Bilam and Jata?" 

Millim smiled. "I don't know anyone by those names." The lie jangled, brazen and unconcerned. 

"Where is your operation based?" 

"Everywhere." The same oily, self-satisfied smile resulted. 

Qui-Gon ground his teeth. "Are you aware that I can dissect your living mind with the Force and take the answers I want?" It would not be easy; this man had natural defenses beyond the norm, but Qui-Gon was confident. 

"Are you aware that what you just said was being recorded?" Millim had entirely too many teeth; he grinned up at the ceiling, and Qui-Gon belatedly sensed a surveillance camera whirring quietly away in the corner. "My company has already transmitted the video of this interview halfway to Coruscant." 

Kalari cursed. "Jom, see to that thing right away. Find any others, too!" 

Qui-Gon forced himself not to react other than raising a hand to delay Jom for another moment. The holovid transmission was a distinct inconvenience-- not an insurmountable one, but to strike now would not bring favorable attention to the Jedi. While it was within his authority to dispense justice, Qui-Gon acknowledged that the Supreme Chancellor and Senate would not be best pleased with the explanation that Qui-Gon's need for haste had caused him to attack a voting citizen without pausing for a proper trial, especially if the incident were made available on the popular holo channels all across the galaxy. 

The trail was growing ever colder as Qui-Gon sat and parried wits with this despicable creature. 

"Captain, take this man and imprison him in the King's best security facilities. On my authority, he is not to be released to anyone short of a Jedi Councilor who bears the authorization of Supreme Chancellor Valorum." Qui-Gon rose. "I am sure we will meet again, Millim, and I will warn you now, as publicly as you like-- should your men harm a Jedi, justice will come for you swiftly and without mercy." 

"Sounds like good holovision." The false joviality dropped from Millim's eyes. "We'll see how long you can ground me, Jedi. You'll soon find out it's not as long as you anticipate." He went with the guards as though he were a lord being led to his harem, calm and condescending. 

Qui-Gon lowered his restraining hand and the whine of a blaster bolt brought an end to the whirring of the small camera. Kalari sighed. "Master Jedi, forgive me; our lapse was inexcusable." 

"None of us could have anticipated that our quarry would be holovid makers who might think to use one of the club's security measures for their own purposes." Qui-Gon absolved her, making the words as gentle as he could; it was not much, but he was exhausted and disheartened. He still could feel no traces of his Padawan. "Captain, do you or any local police organizations have information about Dramacore's presence on Xinune? I need to learn everything I can about their holdings here and on nearby worlds. Have it sent to my room in the palace." 

"Yes, Master Jedi." 

Qui-Gon retrieved his speeder bike and banked back toward the palace. He had calls to make, research to do, and the king must be informed of the night's happenings. 

*****

Six hours later Qui-Gon was still busy. His first order of business had been to call the Temple at Coruscant, speaking first to the Council about Obi-Wan's abduction, then transferring the transmission to Master Tahl. He had hardly believed he would be speaking to Tahl so soon, but she was a Loremaster and he badly needed her assistance. He knew he could rely on her to prioritize his requests for information on Dramacore. Not only that, but if information was there to be found, she could find it swiftly. 

His next move was to contact the Jedi stationed nearest Xinune; two would arrive before the end of the sun cycle and another within a day thereafter. There would be no more question of insufficient backup. 

After that he reported to Tabare, who looked bleary and worn; he had not slept any more than Qui-Gon. The king grimaced at the mention of Dramacore. 

"I've tried a dozen times to bar them from Xinune. Those men are jackals. If they've taken Tiran and put him on one of those filthy--" He caught hold of himself with an effort. "They'll never set foot here again if I can arrange it. I'm usually not in favor of censorship, but there are limits." 

Qui-Gon agreed, regretting that he had no better news to relate-- neither for Tabare nor for himself. "Your Majesty, I must return to my quarters and begin examining the files on Dramacore. There may be a lead or the Force may guide me to my next steps." 

"May the Force be with you," Tabare agreed soberly, and Qui-Gon departed. 

A recorded transmission from Tahl waited in his rooms. Qui-Gon felt a pang of guilt as her blind eyes looked out at him through the holoscreen. "I've collected all relevant information on Dramacore from the Jedi Archives," the recording said. "It's attached here and keyed to your retina scan. I've also highlighted areas of particular interest, but I haven't finished searching. A great deal of the accumulated information is repetitive and there's a lot of worthless junk-- public relations, advertisements, and similar things. Bant is working to prepare a condensed digest for you. I'll spend my time locating information that isn't so readily available and is much more important-- tax records, hidden holdings, legal violations. Investors, properties, recording locations, anything I can find by running correlative searches-- it will take time." 

Tahl hesitated, and her eyes, still lovely even though they no longer functioned, seemed to look right through Qui-Gon. "I can feel through the Force that your distress over Obi-Wan is very great, Qui-Gon. Do not blame yourself for this. And... don't waste energy second-guessing your feelings for him or condemning yourself for having them." She hesitated as though to say more, but then her jaw firmed. "Time is passing and Obi-Wan needs our help. Trust in the Force. I'll communicate again soon with more information." 

Qui-Gon let his own eyes close as her image faded. Had he done right by Tahl? He could not know, but to think her blind because of her damaged eyes was folly. She had seen what she needed to know without Qui-Gon ever speaking a word. 

He set his shame and regret aside and dove into the archive records. 

*****

Obi-Wan stirred painfully. It was dark and his head felt as though it weighed a hundred kilos. The inside of his mouth was dry and leathery and a cotton cloth had been wadded and jammed between his teeth, then tied in place with a leather strip. The gag bit into the corners of his lips and chafed his cheeks and ears. His clothes were gone and cold metal pressed against his back and legs-- they'd taken his lightsaber, of course. A jolting motion shook him side to side. He reached out for the Force and touched nothing. 

The cuffs that trapped his wrists might be generating an inhibitor field or he might be drugged. His Temple training in psychopharmacology had familiarized him with half a dozen drugs that hindered or disabled Force-sensitivity. Few were this completely efficient and those did not come cheaply. Someone had recognized that he was a Jedi-- someone with plenty of credits to spend. 

He blinked blearily; light filtered to his eyes, creeping through the seams of the container he lay in and revealing its shape as a regular pattern of straight lines. The box where he lay was not very tightly sealed. His fingertips ventured up and touched cold metal. The box lurched and tilted; someone was carrying it up a ramp or set of stairs. He listened; he could hear powerful engines growling in the background. A ship-- he was about to be transported off-world. 

Obi-Wan managed to kick at the box beneath his heels and shift his weight, thrashing back and forth like a fish. 

"Shut up," a rough voice answered him. The box shook violently, then thumped down with a deafening clang onto a metal deck. "Bastard's awake already. He ought to have been out at least till we hit hyperspace. They never get it right--" The voice subsided into the distance, grumbling curses. Obi-Wan twisted, trying to gain leverage to pop open the lid and free himself, but it was latched, and without the Force he couldn't budge it. 

His metabolic boost had worked, but his rapidly clearing mind was useless as long as he couldn't touch the Force or break free from captivity. He would simply have to bide his time and await an opportunity. 

"What have we got this time?" A new voice, lighter and less gruff. 

"Label says it's a Jedi. One of the trainees. He ought to be good for a laugh." The original voice was back. A kick jarred Obi-Wan's prison. "You like it in there, Jedi?" 

_Not particularly._ Obi-Wan reached uselessly for the Force again. 

"Enjoy it while you can." The voice laughed. There was a sound of fumbling and the click of latches, and with a scraping creak the lid lifted. Obi-Wan blinked against the bright shipboard lights shining directly over his face. "We know how to deal with Force sensitives around here." The man was thick around the neck and waist, bald, with a filthy grey coverall that looked and smelled as though it had never been laundered. He held up a syringe with a thick hollow needle, made to inject a long-term release capsule. "Hold him down, boys. Thrash too much, Jedi, and you'll wind up with the needle broken off in your gut." 

Obi-Wan would have accepted that in return for his freedom, but he heard a clang and felt the lurch of repulsor lifts and knew the ship had taken off; any simple escape plans had just been thwarted. 

It didn't matter; several men stepped over and forced him down against the floor of the box as the first one injected him. "If you try to cut that out," the fat man grinned, blowing a fetid breath into Obi-Wan's face, "It'll explode, and you'll be a bloody mist all over the walls." He injected the capsule straight into a muscle, which spasmed, cramping painfully. Then they injected him again, using a smaller needle this time, and slowly the cramps began to ease. 

"Give it a second." The second voice belonged to a more slender man, relatively well-dressed, with pale hair, almost white, curling tightly against his skull. "When it takes effect, we'll put him with the others." 

The second hypo turned out to be a muscle relaxant. By the time the men lifted Obi-Wan out, he couldn't move. Only his involuntary muscle systems remained active, and he was grateful for that. A rough hand jerked away the leather gag, then pulled the cotton one from his mouth and tossed both into the box. He felt the click of a key at his wrists as the cuffs were removed, letting blood flow back into his hands. It stung. 

"Is this the best the Jedi can send after us? I won't be wagering on you when you turn up in the show." The man who had injected him tossed away the empty syringe with a laugh. "I ought to know by now big reputations are always just hype." 

The white-haired man nodded, a smirk on his face that sparkled in his eyes. "Now you're starting to get it. You gotta sell the product, no matter what it takes. It doesn't matter who you're dealing with. They may act high and mighty, but they exaggerate everything. It's all in the advertising." He tilted his head toward a bulkhead, and Obi-Wan heard the slide of an automatic door. A guard waved his weapon at the opening. 

"Get back, you worthless lot, or you'll get a blaster bolt for breakfast." The men who held him maneuvered him through feet first and dumped him in; the door slid shut again. 

Obi-Wan couldn't move, but hands grasped his arms and legs and gently straightened them. A face appeared over his: heart-shaped, with dark hazel eyes, a shock of dark brown hair, and sensual, full lips. Tiran. He had matured, losing some of the thinness of adolescence, his jaw and chest had grown deeper, but he was unmistakable. The prince blinked at Obi-Wan, his mouth falling open with shock. 

"Obi-Wan Kenobi?!" 

Tiran tugged on his arms, helping straighten his neck. He felt much better with his body laid out flat on the floor and his head in Tiran's lap. 

"You know this guy?" Another face poked into Obi-Wan's field of vision, a foxy male face with a narrow mustache, his head capped with a shock of golden blond hair. 

"He's a Jedi Knight," Tiran exulted, and the room echoed, perhaps two dozen voices gasping the words, and the room began to buzz with excited conversation. "He must have come to find me. He'll get us out of this." 

A padawan, actually, not a Jedi Knight. Obi-Wan couldn't speak, but he would have rolled his eyes, if he could; he was hardly able to focus on Tiran's face, much less perform a miraculous mass rescue on the spur of the moment. 

"They caught a Jedi?" The blond boy looked dismayed. "I hope they don't expect us to fight him." 

"They'll want him to run," another voice-- female this time-- predicted grimly. "Can you imagine the wagers?" 

Run? Obi-Wan blinked. He tried to wriggle his fingertips and succeeded. Good. 

"We're so fucked," the blond boy groaned. "You feel that?" 

Obi-Wan did; it was the familiar push of acceleration as a ship blasted upward, struggling to escape a planetary gravity well. So much for King Tabare's claim that no ships left Xinune without being searched for Tiran. 

He could move his toes now, so he set about improving his circulation by flexing every muscle he could. 

"Help him," Tiran told the others. Hands reached out to touch Obi-Wan, massaging life back into his limbs. 

"Tiran," he managed thickly at last. "I'd like to say it's good to see you." 

"It is good to see you." Tiran grinned, and steadied Obi-Wan as the ship lurched. 

"Hyperspace," the blond moaned. He was right. Obi-Wan could feel the momentary sensation of stretching that always accompanied a jump. 

Tiran waved him off impatiently. "How did they capture you, Obi-Wan? Was it part of your plan to find me?" 

Obi-Wan grimaced. "I'm afraid it wasn't. I was hunting you, but I foolishly fell into their trap." 

"But you're here now. We'll find a chance to escape." Tiran was as boyishly optimistic and daring as he had always been. 

"There is no chance." The girl shook her head. Now that he was able to sit up, Obi-Wan had his first good look at her. She was naked-- all of them were-- and a shocking array of fresh scars crossed her body in parallel lines, not ending at her face. She felt Obi-Wan's gaze and bent her head, her long dark hair falling over her face, hiding the scars. 

"What do you mean?" Obi-Wan questioned her urgently. "What do you mean, they'll want me to run for wagers? Who are 'they?'" 

"'They' is Dramacore." She shrank into herself as though her hair could cover more of her body-- the scars were livid on her breasts and belly and across her thighs. "Haven't you seen the holovids?" 

Obi-Wan frowned. As a Jedi he had little time for popular entertainment. The few cultural events he attended were much more highbrow than holovids. Jedi attended operas, ballets, plays, diplomatic events, or great cultural expositions. They didn't watch holovids. 

"They put Gida in the arena," Tiran said quietly. "She survived." 

"I haven't seen the holovids. What is Dramacore?" 

"They make gladiator combat shows and broadcast them everywhere. The winners get money-- the winners are supposed to get money: a king's ransom and more. But you see what I got. And I wasn't even kidnapped like you; I signed up. They came to our planet and I was stupid enough to think I could win. Most people don't get a chance to sign up." 

"Gladiator combat," Obi-Wan said slowly. "And people gamble on the winner." 

"The gambling is legendary-- almost as legendary as the advertising fees. Whole planets have changed hands because of the show. Sometimes they make us fight each other, sometimes they put monsters in a ring with us, or sometimes they let us go, give us a day's head start, and set the arranhar after us." Gida shuddered. "An arranha did most of this." She lifted her face, and her eyes glittered from behind the scars; he realized one pupil was milk-white. "I tried to climb out of the arena, but there's razor wire strung everywhere and I caught my ankle. The arranhar patrol on the perimeter. One of the bastards ripped me open and threw me back in. I got lucky-- I fell on a holocam droid and its repulsorlifts were strong enough to keep us both hovering above the action, so I lived." She smiled, humorless. "They healed me up just so they could put me back in the ring later. Jata (that's the one with the white curly hair) said people would like to look at the scars. They'll wager on me because of my luck." 

"And combat isn't all Dramacore sells." Tiran looked away from Obi-Wan, a fine line creasing between his heavy brows. "They make us fuck on camera." 

The word was matter-of-fact and ugly, and Obi-Wan winced. 

"They can't make it rape if we agree we aren't raping each other," Gida said, leaning forward, intense. "They can't make us fight if we won't fight each other." 

"The line between being forced to fuck at gunpoint and agreeing we're willing to fuck one another so as not to get shot still escapes me," Tiran snapped. "And you told us yourself that no matter how many oaths they take, some people will fight one another in the arena rather than be shot or given to the arranhar." 

"It's true." She retreated behind her hair again. "But it's all we have." She looked up at Obi-Wan. "Will you take the oath? We're companions; we're in this together. We don't rape and we aren't raped; we cooperate to survive. We don't fight each other; we stand united. We only defend against attack. If one of us attacks, he's not one of us anymore. He's one of them." 

"I will not rape or be raped, and I will not fight my allies," Obi-Wan said simply, holding her eyes with his. The semantic differences the oath specified were narrow, but he found them meaningful. He gazed around the circle at the others-- more than three dozen of them, humanoids and non-, large and small, male and female, their eyes on him, some of them shining with desperate hope. 

Gida nodded decisively. "Then you're one of us, Jedi, until we can find an escape-- or until death takes us in the arena." 

"They won't waste much time, will they." The blond boy looked toward the door, his eyes haunted. 

"They won't," Gida agreed. "They'll feed us first, though." She looked around the circle. "But we've forgotten our manners-- what's left of them. This is Cido, and Taq, and Mirani--" 

*****

Food turned out to be a liquid protein concentrate swilled into a trough while several guards held the captives at blaster-point. When they withdrew, the prisoners hastily knelt before the trough to eat. Obi-Wan touched the stuff and licked his fingertip, then grimaced. Tiran watched him as the others ate. 

"We'd better eat too, Obi." He dipped his hand in the trough and scooped up a handful of the viscous liquid. "Keep up your strength." He licked at it as it dripped through his fingers. "We could be in for a long night." His eyes were shadowed. "Good thing you and I are already lovers, you know. It won't be as bad." 

"Yes," Obi-Wan agreed. "That's fortunate." He made himself swallow a handful of the concentrate, wrinkling his nose at the heavy chemical flavor and cloying sweetness. "Have you noticed any weaknesses in this setup? Is there any time of day when they open the door consistently, or are there any guards who seem more sympathetic than others? Have you found any doors, vents, or extra exits from the cell?" 

Tiran shook his head unhappily. "Just the one where you came in, and no. I've been here for a couple of weeks, but so far they're a well-oiled machine. We've been forced to make pornographic holos regularly. I think they recorded us during the day and then went out after more of us during the night, but I've lost track of time in here, so I can't be sure. About a quarter of us were taken on Xinune. The others were already here when I arrived. They like people who are distinctive-- strong, beautiful, or capable in some particular way. They want unusual skills and good looks. Those are the big sellers, Gida says." 

Tiran kept eating doggedly as he spoke. "They wanted me because I'm a prince; they want you because you're a Jedi. We'll both drive heavy betting. The first night I was here they forced me to sign a contract agreeing to let them use my image however they wish, agreeing to perform as directed, and absolving them of responsibility in the case of my injury or death. From what I could see, whoever wrote it, it was good-- tight, legal." 

"No contract signed under coercive circumstances will stand up in a court of the Republic, no matter how well-written." 

Tiran smiled painfully. "I hope you're right." 

The door slid open without warning and guards carrying laser rifles began to step through in pairs, followed by the fat, bald man Obi-Wan had first heard speak. 

"That's Bilam," Tiran murmured. "He likes to hurt us." 

Jata stepped in last, his cool eyes scanning the prisoners. "Bring the Jedi and the prince," he pointed to Obi-Wan and Tiran. "I think they will be very much in demand. And bring the two of them, as well." He pointed to Taq and to Gida. 

Flanked by two guards, Bilam stepped up to Obi-Wan. "Sign this," he offered a data reader and a stylus. "Or don't." A smile split his face, revealing stained, crooked teeth. 

"And if I don't?" 

"I'll torture your friend there until you do." Bilam smirked. "Are you prepared to accept responsibility for that, Jedi?" 

"I do not sign this contract of my own free will," Obi-Wan said coolly, but accepted the stylus and imprinted his name as directed. Bilam snatched the pad back, anger and disappointment flashing in his bleary gray eyes; Obi-Wan had spoiled his fun. 

Jata took the data reader from Bilam. "Excellent. Everything is in order," he laughed softly. "Prepare them and bring them to the recording room." 

***** 

Despite his sleepless night, Qui-Gon returned to his room and settled down to search through Tahl's information instead of going to bed. Unfortunately, Dramacore's operations on Xinune seemed limited to a few offices that handled local publicity and advertising. Tahl might turn up more; Qui-Gon did not give up hope. 

Obi-Wan's continued silence and the complete absence of his familiar presence in the Force preyed on Qui-Gon's nerves, distracting him from his work. His mind kept returning to worry at the emptiness like a tongue probing the socket of a missing tooth. He couldn't stop himself from replaying the evening's events in his mind, trying to sense where the turning point had been-- the place where it all went wrong. He could have insisted on accompanying Obi-Wan. He could have tried to follow the kidnappers after he lost them instead of giving up and returning to the club. He could somehow have stowed away on their vehicle and let them take him to Obi-Wan. 

He couldn't even be sure the Force had guided him in what he'd actually done. His state of mind was increasingly disturbed; he had never paused to realize how much he relied on the vibrant hum of Obi-Wan's psychic presence in the corner of his mind. To think of what was happening to his padawan now-- 

Qui-Gon heard a creak and realized his fingers were bending the thin metal of the desk. He made himself fold them in his lap. After a few moments his comm chimed, interrupting his pacing-- he did not even know that he'd risen. 

He seated himself and forced a serene expression. "Yes?" 

"Master Qui-Gon." A knight appeared on the screen-- Misi Raksen, a fairly well-established Jedi watchman who had just taken her first padawan. He'd been expecting her. "We've arrived at the spaceport. Are there any new leads?" 

"None." Qui-Gon shook his head. 

"I've brought my personal records on Dramacore. They're very active in this sector and I've been collecting evidence of illegal activities: front companies, connections, political liaisons, tax dodges, properties they control through their fronts. I've been trying to find their arenas and chase locations, but they're cagey." 

"Your information should be useful." Qui-Gon felt a flicker of hope. "Can you transmit?" 

"Right away." She pressed a data chip into the viewer and Qui-Gon's comm bleated softly to indicate receipt. "Qui-Gon, as far as I know Dramacore has never captured a Jedi before." Her voice was sober. "But they've done nearly everything else, and I'd say they'll be absolutely beside themselves with glee at getting one. They'll put him in a battle arena or let him go and have the arranhar chase him until they cut him down." 

She hesitated, her eyes sympathetic. "Sometimes their gladiators don't just fight, either. If they have a fighter they think is pretty enough or popular enough, they feature him in pornographic holos and sell them at a premium. Sometimes they blackmail the fighter's family or connections with the videos, if they think it's worthwhile. When they're backed into a corner, they sometimes use pornographic blackmail holos as leverage to get away with murder-- quite literally. Rather than let the holos be broadcast, wealthy families pay ransoms and drop charges; governments fail to pursue lawsuits, lawyers abandon their clients, and Dramacore keeps turning out their so-called 'entertainment.' A few of their stars win-- and win big; they make a huge publicity event out of the big winners, produce shows that display their lifestyles after they collect their winnings, and even have reunion shows for the contestants-- but lots of the contestants aren't volunteers. Most of them never make it out of the combat arenas alive. A couple of the winners who complained publicly about their treatment during the battles later disappeared under what I can only call suspicious circumstances." 

Qui-Gon's heart sank. Obi-Wan's situation was even worse than he'd feared. He clamped down on a flicker of rage, forcing it to subside as far as he could. He could not extinguish it; wrath glowed inside his spirit like a reactor core nearing meltdown. 

"The leader we captured said he would not remain a captive for long," he said, and Misi nodded ruefully. Qui-Gon could feel the truth of it in the Force. Tabare would never agree for such a video of Tiran to be broadcast-- it would ruin his son's arranged marriage, for one thing. Worse, it would undermine Tiran's future authority as a ruler. 

And as for the Jedi-- to allow the public to see a Jedi, even a padawan, rendered powerless and exploited, forced to perform sexually, then pursued to his death in a combat arena? Both the Council and the Senate would walk barefoot over red hot coals before accepting a public-relations disaster of that magnitude. They would sacrifice Obi-Wan, if necessary, and wait for a better opportunity to deal with Dramacore. 

"Then we'll study our information for clues and if the Force doesn't guide us to Obi-Wan, we'll wait for Dramacore to make the next move." Qui-Gon kept his tone level, but it took effort. "I will find Obi-Wan." 

So the days passed, with more Jedi arriving at irregular intervals-- specialists in various areas, each contributing valuable skills. But it was to no avail. There were no leads and Millim had nothing to say. 

Qui-Gon barely slept and rarely ate; Tahl sent him more information and he coordinated it with the others, releasing it freely. He felt driven to examine each set of knowledge himself in spite of his expert assistants in hopes that he might see some vital clue or make a connection the others missed. Hours stretched into days as the tension in the palace built. 

Qui-Gon could not even bear to lie down to sleep. Every minute he wasted took Obi-Wan farther from him and increased the danger to his padawan. While others rested, he pored through his data files again and again or tried to meditate, questioning the Force, seeking patterns and pathways in the future-- but insight eluded him. Manipulating and reading the Unifying Force had never been his greatest strength. 

He knew he was more distressed than his position as Obi-Wan's master warranted. The attachment he had formed to Obi-Wan was too deep, even if he had never acted on his feelings, and now he must pay. 

He grew increasingly short-tempered, his Jedi serenity and calm center moving farther from his grasp than they had ever been before, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care. After he found Obi-Wan he could rest and reclaim control. For now, he chafed and studied and paced his rooms like a tessek in a cage as he waited for the other shoe to drop. 

It didn't take long. 

On the fourth day after his padawan's disappearance, the quiet chime of Qui-Gon's comm unit sounded soon after dawn. The mild noise gave no clue to the devastating content of the message it signaled, but the Force stirred uneasily, warning him. The Jedi master moved to the comm panel with dread, keying the message to appear onscreen. 

The message was a recording, not a live transmission. A masked man appeared, spreading his palms theatrically wide. His voice purred smoothly. "My good friends, I'm pleased to show you the latest from Dramacore's growing catalog of specialty holographs, this impending special release. Though, of course, should any of you wish to possess this holograph exclusively, arrangements may of course be made provided you act quickly. I regret that for us to consider your offer, exclusivity negotiations must begin with a good-faith gesture: the immediate release of Ruoto Millim, whom I understand is in custody due to an unfortunate misunderstanding." The man bowed and his image faded. 

The Dramacore logo appeared, a stylized representation of the galaxy core with whirling arms flashing like a throwing star. Qui-Gon's stomach rolled as a fruity voice introduced the holo, lingering with vibrant glee on the summary-- "In this amazing true-life video, Intimate Lust presents Dramacore's exclusive scoop on forbidden Jedi passion! See the shocking truth about the galaxy's mysterious freedom fighters, the Senate's private police force-- learn all about the smoking-hot private lives of these decadent mystic knights as they take royal princes and Dramacore's own galactic gladiator superstars for their secret lovers!" 

The opening credits teased behind the words: first with an image of Obi-Wan's face contorting in a sensual gasp, his eyes closed and his padawan braid coiling sinuously against his cheek, his lips swollen. Then Tiran faded into view, the sharp planes of his handsome face lit from above so that his shadowed eyes almost made him look savage. Finally the holo presented a young woman with terrible scars and striking eyes behind a wild mop of black hair. She knelt with her hands open on her thighs as she stared smokily out at the viewer, her bare breasts prominent, her legs widespread. 

Qui-Gon's finger stabbed the 'pause' key with nearly enough force to shatter the console top. 

Almost simultaneously his comm board lit up with two urgent calls. 

He took the one from Coruscant first, knowing it would be Mace or Yoda before it ever coalesced ...into Mace _and_ Yoda. His jaw set with irritation. No doubt they thought it best to show him a united front. 

"Masters." He inclined his head politely, masking his weariness and his badly frayed temper. This conversation was inevitable, though everyone already knew what would be said; they were just wasting precious time. 

"We've received a communication from Dramacore," Mace said without preamble. "It's a pornographic holovid featuring your padawan with a blackmail threat attached." 

"I received the same communication," Qui-Gon acknowledged. "I've not yet had time to study it for clues to Obi-Wan's whereabouts. Have you studied it yet?" He could hear his own anger in the tightness of his tone but had no strength to push it away. 

"Distressed you are, Qui-Gon. And not without cause." Yoda's ears were drooping. "Respect your padawan's need for privacy, we do, but the council must know what has happened." 

"We may be able to help with the investigation. If any of us see anything, we'll notify you immediately." Mace met Qui-Gon's eyes levelly, almost daring him to object. 

"Will you serve refreshments at the viewing?" Qui-Gon heard bitterness in his tone and regretted his words; all they did was show how badly his core of serenity had been damaged. In truth he would not stop the viewing if he could, not if there was a chance the Jedi could use the video to locate and help Obi-Wan. 

"Qui-Gon--" Mace's too-reasonable tone patronized him, but Yoda huffed and swung his stick at Windu's shin, making him grimace and fall silent. 

"Understandable, your anger. But you must come to terms with your feelings, Qui-Gon Jinn. Depending on you, Obi-Wan is. Be ready when the time comes to act!" Yoda sighed. "Unfortunate this is, and embarrassing. Nevertheless, notified the Supreme Chancellor must be. If this video comes to light, there will be much trouble." 

Qui-Gon suppressed a flare of anger at Yoda's effortlessly accurate insinuation about his feelings for Obi-Wan. This was no time for petty bickering over personal details. "Then you want me to release Ruoto Millim as they requested." The words tasted foul in Qui-Gon's mouth and impotent rage began to swell inside his heart. 

"Wisdom, this is." Yoda nodded, his ears still low. "Much is involved here, not only Kenobi's reputation." 

"Dramacore will have more demands when Millim has been released," Mace stated neutrally. "They will contact us." 

"And you will buy the recording." Qui-Gon's lips curled with distaste. "You will negotiate and bide your time, and Obi-Wan will die in their filthy arena while you do nothing!" 

"Our first priority must be to protect the reputation of the Jedi and safeguard our ability to bring peace and order to the Republic." Mace tilted his head, his tone sharp-- self-righteous and certain. 

"Listen to yourself." Qui-Gon lifted his chin, glaring at Windu with open anger. "I knew what you would say before I ever received this call. Obi-Wan's life and the violation he has endured mean nothing to you; your only concern is how this will reflect on the Jedi!" 

"A concern it is for us, yes, but especially for the Senate! Order must be preserved." Yoda thrust his stick at the holocamera, as openly agitated as Qui-Gon had ever seen him. "Ask you to dishonor your padawan we do not, Qui-Gon! Nor must you abandon him. You may yet find him and halt this evil." 

"Then let me be about it." Qui-Gon bit the words off with savage precision, reaching for the terminate button. He could see Yoda shaking his head in dismay as the transmission ended. 

"Go well, that did not," he mocked the old master bitterly. There would be time to continue this argument later-- at great length and with exhaustive reference to the inappropriateness of his behavior. He didn't give a damn. 

The second flashing light opened a circuit to the King; Tabare had also received the holovid, and his face was haggard and gray. "Master Jedi, I--" 

"I received one as well, and one was sent to the Jedi Temple at Coruscant." Qui-Gon sighed. "I hope you will forgive me, Your Majesty, but I will have to share this transmission with the Jedi who have come to help us. We must watch the hologram together. We may be able to discover useful information." 

"Kalari, too," Tabare said. "She may know things you don't, or she may recognize places on Xinune that aren't familiar to the Jedi." 

"Agreed. Your Majesty, this will not be pleasant. Perhaps it would be for the best if you do not watch--" 

"I will watch, Master Jinn." Tabare's mouth pinched tight. "He's my only son." 

"Very well," Qui-Gon agreed reluctantly, understanding that Tabare would not be persuaded to do otherwise. "Do you have a private holosuite?" 

The Jedi assembled in the holosuite rapidly at Qui-Gon's request. Tabare sent his servants and guards away, and finally all who remained were the Jedi Knights and Misi's small padawan, plus Tabare and Kalari. Qui-Gon raised a brow at the young one's presence. Misi put her hand on his shoulder. 

"Guard the door, Walek, and remain outside until I come for you. We are not to be disturbed." She straightened. When they had watched him go, Qui-Gon realized there was no more excuse for delay. This must be endured, no matter how painful. 

In his pocket, he carried a data chip with the message stored on it. Taking it out, Qui-Gon slid it into the slot and keyed the holoprojector. The projection equipment was among the finest he had ever seen, and when the recording started, the image coalesced in three dimensions, swirling in the center of the large room. 

After the logo and the introduction, the scene faded in on a dimly lit room with four doors, each with a person standing in front of it. The figures were life-sized and vivid, the resolution crystal clear and smooth. If not for the absence of the aura a live being generated in the Force, Qui-Gon might have thought they were real. Obi-Wan was, of course, one of the four. 

Qui-Gon pulled up his hood and stepped back, hiding his expression inside the comforting shadow of his cowl, and tucked his hands deep within his sleeves. 

The figures stepped out of darkness and moved slowly toward the center of the room, which brightened as they moved forward. Qui-Gon's eyes remained riveted to Obi-Wan's holograph. His padawan was alive but obviously drugged; his eyes glittered and his hands shook slightly. His face was flushed and his lips parted. His stride was not fully balanced. From the way he glanced about, carefully checking his surroundings and the location of the others, Qui-Gon knew he could not touch the Force and read its currents. 

His padawan still wore the black leather he had on when Qui-Gon last saw him, but the 'lightsaber' that swung at his side was a prop, not a weapon. The other prisoners were completely naked. 

"A false weapon." Misi pointed it out, and other murmurs concurred. 

"He is drugged," Qui-Gon added. "He cannot touch the Force." 

The group reached out, inviting him to join his mind to their circle. Qui-Gon erected careful shields before doing so. It was disconcerting to watch the other Jedi move about the room, walking into the holograph and examining it from every angle as it ran. Qui-Gon remained still, withdrawn. Obi-Wan was moving, lifting Tiran's face, sliding one palm under his jaw, thumb caressing his lips. He looked reasonably calm, but a telltale ridge waited under his leather trousers. Qui-Gon shifted, lifting his chin, refusing to look at it. That was much more difficult than it should have been. 

"He has been given a Force inhibitor and aphrodisiacs," Knight Birin said. "Perhaps a hypnotic to increase his receptivity to suggestion." 

"This was recorded on a transport. The deck plating is consistent with a Barloz-class medium cargo freighter," his partner Cai offered. 

More soft words were spoken, but Qui-Gon could hardly hear them. His eyes were fixed on Obi-Wan, who leaned in and tilted his face up gracefully to kiss Tiran. Appalling music thumped in the background, suggestive and discordant. 

"Computer, silence soundtrack," someone said. The music ceased and the soft sounds of mouths meeting filled the room instead. Qui-Gon swallowed, his throat dry. Tiran was taller than Obi-Wan, but his padawan clearly dominated the scene. The other boy and girl stepped up passively and after a moment, Obi-Wan slid his arm around the boy's waist and pulled him in, one hand sliding up his spine. His mouth moved lasciviously on Tiran's, and as he kissed the prince he reached for the girl as well, drawing her against the others, one hand resting lightly on her smooth hip. 

"The vocal track shows signs of tampering," said Cai, standing at the comm panel and watching a readout there. "They are being given directions we do not hear. Partial reconstruction may be possible; there was more than one microphone in the room and residue exists on secondary tracks." 

"They have cast Obi-Wan as the aggressor." Qui-Gon hardly recognized his own voice. "To reflect unfavorably on the Jedi." 

The four holographic prisoners split apart and Obi-Wan's hands moved to Tiran's shoulders, caressing. Slowly, he pressed the Xinune prince to his knees. His hands tightened to fists in the prince's hair as Tiran began to nuzzle at the leather trousers. The blond boy and the girl withdrew slightly and the boy moved behind her, fondling her as they watched and waited. Tiran delicately popped the button of Obi-Wan's trousers with his teeth and Obi-Wan smiled, hazy but with obvious relief, as the prince reached in and freed him. 

Tabare made a weak noise of protest, but the voices of the others had already ceased to matter to Qui-Gon. He withdrew from the mind-link, realizing he could not maintain enough control over his shields to conceal his distress. The others must not know what this was going to do to him. 

"Suck my cock." Obi-Wan's voice, a sultry growl, crashed against Qui-Gon quietly but with devastating effect; he instantly went rigid beneath his clothes and his fists clenched with the need to lash out and strike something. Tiran obeyed, his lips parting, and he took the tip on his tongue. Then Obi-Wan's hand slid behind his head, dragging him forward, urging him to move faster. He sank down, eyes closed, and obeyed, his throat working with effort. Obi-Wan's length gleamed wet when it emerged from his mouth. With a sigh Obi-Wan tilted his hips and began to thrust. Tiran struggled to accommodate him, but Obi-Wan's hand was firm on his neck and he took Tiran's mouth without mercy, his lashes fluttering, his head tilting back. The leather trousers fell to his thighs, revealing his perfect, muscular bottom. 

Qui-Gon's jaw locked so tightly a muscle began to twitch in his temple. It was all but impossible to breathe. The blond boy was moving now, and so was the girl; the girl reclined on her back and scooted up until she lay between Tiran's thighs, reaching for his erection. The blond boy knelt between her knees, a vial of oil in his hand, and pressed his chest against Tiran's back. He slicked his fingers and his cock, and worked his forefinger into Tiran, who shuddered and squirmed. 

Tiran began moaning deep in his throat, the sound half-choked around Obi-Wan's cock. Obi-Wan directed the prince relentlessly, both hands fisted in his hair. He was purring, a low satisfied rumble; Qui-Gon's blood thundered in his ears, all but drowning Tiran's soft moans and the slick sounds of hands on flesh. 

"Take it," Obi-Wan instructed, and Tiran gasped as the third boy extracted his fingers and replaced them with his cock, pushing up and in with one smooth stroke. 

Pinned between the three of them, Tiran writhed; the light caught the sleek planes of his long, pale body, winking off a gold ring in his nipple. Obi-Wan's finger hooked into it and tugged, twisting slightly; this produced a low, throttled wail in the prince's throat. 

Obi-Wan chuckled and Qui-Gon thought he might go mad at the rich, exultant sound of it. Due to both the drugs and the relationship he once shared with Tiran, his padawan was only partly acting. The Dark Side swirled in Qui-Gon, feeding-- rage, jealousy, pain, shame, lust. 

"Qui-Gon, are you all right?" Misi's alarmed voice intruded. She laid her palm on Qui-Gon's shoulder. 

He snapped his head upright, glaring out of his cowl, and the pure fury in his stare propelled her back a step, sending her hand to hover over her blade. 

"No," he said, simply but precisely, biting off the word. "Would you be, if it were Walek?" His jaw seized tight; he could not speak further. She shook her head once, her eyes sympathetic and her lips vanishing into a thin line, then stepped away politely. 

The holo drew him, relentless; Obi-Wan and the blond boy were both thrusting hard into Tiran now, their hands sliding over his chest and back, holding him upright even as their thrusts buffeted him back and forth between them. Tiran whimpered, helpless, sweat sliding down his ribs; his face was flushed with effort. The girl still worked his shaft in one hand, her other arm curled around his thigh to brace him. 

Qui-Gon caught sight of Tabare's white face over the hologram; he looked like he wanted to sick up everything he had ever eaten. 

"Ah!" Obi-Wan gasped, and his hips pulled back as he came; stripes of gleaming pearl painted Tiran's face and some spattered in the girl's hair. Obi-Wan's hands tightened until his fingertips made white dimples on Tiran's shoulder-- they would turn to bruises, Qui-Gon knew. The blond boy withdrew from the prince and the girl slid out from between his thighs, leaving him unspent. He knelt there, shuddering, eyes on the floor, his chest rising and falling as he gasped for breath. The girl petted him, comforting; her dark hair was in disarray and it stuck to the sweat on his shoulder as she drew him against her, the gesture strangely protective. 

Relief began to fill Qui-Gon-- was it over?-- but hope drained away quickly as the blond boy stepped forward and raised one slender hand to tweak Obi-Wan's nipple. Obi-Wan smiled, considering him through slitted eyes; his shaft was shrinking, cradled in his hand as he stripped the last drops of semen from the tip. 

"Whatever shall I use on you?" His left hand fell to the false lightsaber, curled around it, and Qui-Gon's nails cut into his palms. 

Obi-Wan drew the hilt, one hand turning the blond boy, bending him over. 

"Brace your hands on your thighs." Obi-Wan retrieved the oil and poured a generous measure on the hilt in his hand. After a slight hesitation, a glance toward whoever was directing him, he pressed the hilt to the young man's body and ignored the hiss of pain as he began to push the prop inside. 

Obi-Wan worked slowly-- as much a kindness as a tease, perhaps. As he leaned over the blond, Tiran crept forward on his knees and slipped in behind him, easing the tight leather trousers down over his thighs. 

The girl worked at the straps that fastened Obi-Wan's boots and helped him kick them off; together she and the blond took the trousers off him and threw them aside. Then Tiran nuzzled against Obi-Wan's backside, kissing the cleft. The prince's hands pressed Obi-Wan's cheeks apart, and he led with his tongue as he leaned in, making Obi-Wan groan and pause in what he was doing, his even white teeth sinking into his lower lip, his belly taut. The girl stood and worked his jacket off his shoulders, leaving him naked. She tossed it at Qui-Gon's feet, where it lay crumpled. 

"It is not to be borne!" Tabare's voice, hoarse with anger, slid past Qui-Gon's consciousness. "Such an indignity for my son!" 

The tableau continued, indifferent to the king's complaint. Obi-Wan pressed the fake saber hilt inside the blond by gradual stages, adding oil, carefully turning it to ease the way until he was satisfied. Then he began to slide it out as carefully as he had pressed inside, coaxing the blond to accept it, working until it moved freely before he started to move faster. He was quivering, perspiring with the effort of control, his hair turning to spikes and his chest gleaming with silver trails as the droplets gathered and slid downward. 

Tiran took him in hand, stroking him to hardness, still plying his tongue. The girl waited, watching; one hand moved between her thighs, her fingers busy. She rolled her nipple and pinched it, and her small pink tongue darted out to slick her lower lip, but Qui-Gon had no eyes for her, only for Obi-Wan, who had begun undulating back against the tongue that fucked him. He had found the sweet spot for the blond, who was struggling to stay upright, sinews quivering, mewling each time the hilt pressed over his prostate, his slender cock red and gleaming at the tip. 

Obi-Wan's breath came harshly in his throat; his heavy-lidded eyes were glazed with passion, and he hardly seemed to know where he was. At last he withdrew the hilt and flung it away. "Go have her," he directed the blond toward the girl with a casual tilt of his chin, and turned back to Tiran, dragging him upright and punishing him with a brutal kiss. He drew back, eyes glittering, mouth wet, and licked his lips. 

"Now I want you to fuck me." He slid his open palm down his belly and up again, letting it rest over his nipple-- the very gesture he had made without thinking in front of Qui-Gon while squirming with pleasure on his sumptuous palace bed. Through the haze of lust and anger in his mind, Qui-Gon realized Obi-Wan's nipple had been pierced like Tiran's, and sported its own gleaming golden ring. 

The shock of the familiar motion combined with the smoke of lust in Obi-Wan's words drove a lightning surge of sensation straight through Qui-Gon's cock. He very nearly screamed. His balls were an agony of pressure, and he thought he had not breathed since the whole scene began. He could taste blood, yet he did not know when he had bitten the inside of his cheek. His whole mouth was filled with the sour tang of metal. 

Tiran and Obi-Wan sank to the floor, each kissing and biting at the other's lips. Qui-Gon could feel every beat of his own heart sending a spike of unwanted urgency through his cock. Tiran lifted Obi-Wan's legs and hooked them over his shoulders, kissing the inside of his thigh. He was more relaxed now, and his ease as he arranged their bodies was telling, hinting of past intimacy. 

Obi-Wan stretched his arms out over his head, smiling, his eyes burning hot. They held Tiran's as the prince slicked himself with the last of the oil; a spark of lust leaped across their joined gaze, and Tiran obeyed the unspoken communication, driving in without preamble. 

Obi-Wan hissed, arching; he caught his own legs behind the knees and held himself open for Tiran. 

"Give it to me hard," Obi-Wan rasped, "and hurry up." 

Tiran did, bracing his hands on the deckplates. He plowed into Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan gasped, his lips open, his eyes growing wide and dark. Still he held Tiran's gaze; still the electric current of lust bound them. "That's it," he gasped. "Harder." The corners of his mouth curled up with satisfaction and tension left him; in the part of his mind that could still think clearly, Qui-Gon understood his padawan's conscience, still present though buried under the drugs, was finally clear-- no longer taking but taken. His responsibility for the others had lessened. 

Obi-Wan and Tiran might almost be alone. Qui-Gon could hear the girl whimpering, but he did not turn his eyes toward her. Obi-Wan's head jerked, helpless, his braid flying across the floor as Tiran found the right angle and began a punishing rhythm that dragged hoarse cries from Obi-Wan's throat. Qui-Gon could see his padawan's shaft lying against his belly, taut and full again; he reached and caught it in his hand, squeezing and tugging upward in short, sharp strokes. 

Tiran's eyes were closed, his mouth slack; he was breathing hard, making a low grunt of effort at the extent of each thrust. The punishing pace could not last long, and it didn't. Within moments, his muscles shuddering with the strain, Tiran succumbed. With a low growl he shoved his entire length into Obi-Wan and his body convulsed as he spent himself. 

Obi-Wan keened, his wrist twisting as he stroked himself; one, two, three more frantic tugs, and then he jerked, face contorting as he painted his belly with semen. Tiran collapsed onto him and they lay there, limp and gasping, the prince's face buried in Obi-Wan's neck. Obi-Wan's free hand rose and smoothed over Tiran's back, soothing him. 

The images faded abruptly and were replaced by the masked man. 

"We do hope you have enjoyed this small sample of our wares, and we trust it will inspire you to do business with us again very soon." Amusement oozed into his voice. "There is, after all, much more where that came from. Our writing department has hardly touched the limitless bounds of creativity. Many specialty interest scenes may soon be made available to you." He bowed. "Dramacore appreciates your patronage." 

The recording was over. 

Qui-Gon sagged, but there was no relief. The nightmare wasn't over. Jealousy and rage and lust still surged and boiled inside his heart, and he knew instinctively that he had to release them into the Force-- as quickly as possible, before they consumed him. 

Without a word to anyone, he whirled and stalked out. 

Unfortunately, he had forgotten the guard. Even as the door hissed shut behind him, he heard the snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting. Instinctively he reacted, raising his hand and lashing out defensively with the Force. A body flew; Qui-Gon was startled to recognize Walek as his attacker, the padawan's lightsaber clattering onto the marble floor as he struck the wall hard. 

Hastily Qui-Gon released the apprentice, who staggered against the wall and righted himself, summoning his lightsaber to his outstretched hand. His throat bobbed as he gulped with fear, but he clutched the lightsaber firmly, falling into the first position of Soresu. Walek calmed himself with a visible effort, prepared to defend if Qui-Gon attacked. 

Qui-Gon's throat closed with shame. A ten-year-old padawan, probably only partway through learning the first kata of his chosen combat form, the lad was nonetheless ready to remain at his post and die against one of the order's three best living swordsmen. Furthermore, the apprentice was not at fault for igniting his lightsaber; he had not swung at Qui-Gon. It was quite appropriate to prepare for defense when he perceived so much dark energy approaching. Qui-Gon could feel the darkness pulsing around himself, crackling with energy like heavy thunderclouds. He must have terrified the boy by storming out like this. 

It was lucky he hadn't injured the child. 

Another moment passed, electric with tension, before Walek turned off the blade, dropping his guard. "Forgive me, Master Jinn." 

"It is I who should ask forgiveness, young padawan." Another time he would have gone to his knee, attempting to explain and comfort, but today it was not in him. "You acted rightly; even another Jedi may pose a threat." He tried to smile, but felt the brittleness of it. "If you will excuse me, I must meditate and purge my anger." 

"Yes, sir." Walek resumed his post as Qui-Gon stalked away. 

Force curse it, right now a quarter-trained padawan was a better Jedi than he was. His state of mind was so disturbed from the stress of uncontrolled emotions that he thought he would probably fail the Trials required to become a Knight if he had to re-take them to prove his fitness for going on. Suffering through that hologram made the Trial of Spirit he'd endured so long ago look like a children's picnic in a nature park. 

Qui-Gon swept through the palace, domestic staff and members of the King's household scuttling out of his way hastily. He ignored them. He had never felt so relieved to reach his rooms; once the door slammed behind him, he fell to his knees on the carpet, trying to reach for meditation and peace. 

They eluded him. His body was a wreck of hormones and adrenaline, and he could not concentrate. The images of Obi-Wan kept playing inside his mind, an infinite loop of torment that forced both his body and his spirit to an inescapable breaking point of tension. Qui-Gon bit his lip; strung taut between the demands of his body and the fury in his heart, he could not find a way to release his distress into the Force. 

He could only think of one thing to do that would help-- and he had never done it before. He had vowed to reserve himself for the Force, disdaining mere physical indulgence. Now, after nearly 180 years of life as a Jedi, it was time to try a new solution; he was desperate. It was shameful-- horribly so to let the rape of his apprentice affect him in such a way-- but there was no other viable alternative except perhaps to succumb to the Dark Side, to let his anger have free rein, and to destroy everything he could reach, definitely including Ruoto Millim-- an unacceptable, if attractive, solution. 

Qui-Gon clenched his fists, set his jaw, and stood. Feeling strangely like a condemned prisoner, he stripped off his cloak and let it drop to the floor. His leather belt fell from him next, then his sash and his tunic. He stood for a moment, half-fearful, half-exhilarated, and sat down on the too-soft bed. He began loosening the straps of his boots, unfastening them one at a time, drawing his feet out and letting them settle into the plush carpet. 

It felt as if he were peeling back layers of himself, baring someone he did not know-- discarding the thick layers of years, philosophies, experiences, even actions, leaving only a man-- not a very proud one. Was this how others felt, the non-Jedi? Exposed and purposeless, driven by emotions they could not always control? 

He stood, wearing only his leggings, and stepped over to the window, looking out at the lush garden courtyards below. A shaft of sunlight fell over his chest, warm and sensual. Compared to the boiling darkness inside him, it felt.... clean, safe. 

He used the soft, warm glow of the sun as a focus, and it helped bring his awareness out of his spirit and into his body. Distasteful or not, his new strategy was already working. His body's need had begun to focus, building anticipation. Paying attention to it helped the darker emotions recede; the lust eclipsed the anger and beckoned him, seductive. 

He stepped to the connecting door that led to Obi-Wan's room, keyed it, and slipped inside. His padawan's pack lay carelessly abandoned on the bed, and Obi-Wan's everyday clothing had been tossed in a heap over the back of a straight chair. Qui-Gon himself had returned Obi-Wan's cloak to this place, folding it neatly in a deliberate counterpoint to his padawan's typically messy personal habits. Other than leaving his few possessions, Obi-Wan had barely touched this place long enough to make an imprint. 

Qui-Gon went to the chair, and with one trembling hand, he reached to caress the rich brown of Obi-Wan's cloak. He could smell his apprentice's scent on the cloth. It sent a hot pulse of desire shooting through him to curl insistently at his groin. Anger was fading; there was not enough room for it here, not in the same space with his desire for Obi-Wan. 

He sighed, closing his eyes, concentrating his focus on the image of his Obi-Wan lying on this very bed in this very room, smiling up at him. 

Very carefully, very deliberately ignoring the guilt that whispered at him, he took his padawan's cloak, walked over to the bed, and lay down where Obi-Wan had lain. He cradled the cloak carefully to him as if it were a living thing, inhaling deeply of his padawan's scent. Then, for the first time in a very long life, Qui-Gon Jinn slipped his hand inside his leggings, curled it around his erect flesh, and began to stroke himself. 

It felt awkward and uncomfortable, and his cheeks heated with self-conscious blood-- but it also felt inexpressibly good. His breath hitched in his chest as he explored, tentative fingers mapping the unfamiliar shape of the swollen length. The faint hint of Obi-Wan's scent lingered with him, and he closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. 

He tried a long, smooth stroke, discovering what to do and how to make it feel good. The pleasure burned in him like the slow heat of the sun on his skin. It made him think of his padawan-- but not as he appeared in the hologram; instead, he pictured Obi-Wan as he stood by Qui-Gon's side every day. The way his leggings rode low on his hips after he got up in the morning when they were quartered in the Temple, while he was making breakfast for them both. The intensity of the focus he brought to his training; the way he sank into lightsaber katas, all other things forgotten but the perfect harmony of mind, body, and the Force. The way his eyes sparkled above the sly smile he often wore as he glanced over to his master to share the joke when something amused him. The way his chin lifted and squared as he advanced into battle, indomitable. His loose-limbed, confident stride and the sway of his hips as he walked.... 

Qui-Gon shifted restlessly, his hand tightening; he remembered touching Obi-Wan's mind and finding feelings like this one waiting there-- feelings Obi-Wan had for him. As full of wonder as it was of danger, this knowledge.... 

"Obi-Wan." The name escaped him on a breath, a soft murmur of passion, a delightful frisson shivering through him in response to the reverent sound. His hand moved, his body teaching him the way. Faster now, a gentle twist at the top, moving the loose skin around the tip. The hard, rough callus on his thumb felt good just there, teasing unexpectedly sensitive skin. 

He thought his Obi-Wan would have responded to Qui-Gon as he had to Tiran-- more so; he would have been joyous, willing, eager, and open, not drugged and coerced. Qui-Gon heard himself whimper softly, low in his throat; his body was restless with the energy flowing through it, its focus building inside his moving palm. His hips and thighs shifted, his back arched, and his muscles worked to find a way to channel the energy, to release it. His stomach tightened and his free hand wandered restlessly, seeking out sensation, scraping nails over skin that already felt unimaginably charged with sensation. 

This was the pure Living Force; concentrated, distilled, blazing like a white giant star. How could he have turned his back on it for so long? He pushed his hips upward, driving himself through his fist. He lost himself fully in the moment as sensation gathered, strengthening, driving his consciousness out, leaving only room for itself-- and then burst in a supernova, leaving him to slump back on the bed, drained and sticky. 

He blinked at the ceiling for a few long moments, realizing it would be an excellent idea to remove his leggings first the next time. His anger was still with him, but was contained now, and its subsidence had left a deep, spiraling weariness in its place. The bed cradled him lovingly and Obi-Wan's scent soothed him. Clumsily he pulled the cloak over his bare chest, over his face. How long had it been since he last slept? Before he could work it out, his eyelids sank shut and he faded away. 

*****

A hand shook Qui-Gon's shoulder and he surged to wakefulness instantly, prepared to defend-- but it was Misi, standing well back from him, her gaze carefully cool. Qui-Gon could have cursed. He felt color rise into his cheeks-- caught lying amidst Obi-Wan's things, reeking of sex? Unforgivable. And then there was the matter of Walek. 

"Master Misi," He sat upright, drawing the cloak over himself. "I apologize for frightening your padawan. We took one another off-guard." 

"He is unharmed." She nevertheless radiated disapproval. "The Council have contacted me regarding Ruoto Millim's disposal. I thought it best to include you in this." 

"Indeed." He stood, wincing as tender hairs caught and pulled. "I must dress. We will go to the cells at once." 

She swept out and Qui-Gon peeled his leggings off himself, grimacing, then took a hasty shower. As a form of meditation, masturbating had definitely been a change from the norm. It had been what he needed, though, and that was what mattered. 

He dried his hair hastily with a towel and put on fresh clothes, then went out. Misi was waiting, and Walek, who inclined his head politely towards Qui-Gon, a perfect picture of decorum. Qui-Gon tried not to notice how close Misi stood behind her padawan, protective of him and wary of Qui-Gon even now. 

They collected King Tabare and flew the short distance to the royal guard house where Millim was housed. He was relaxing, reclined on his narrow, hard cot, and seemed unsurprised to see them. 

"I suppose you've brought a Jedi councilor with a signed release order from Supreme Chancellor Valorum?" Millim grinned, hard and triumphant. 

"Release him," Qui-Gon instructed Captain Kalari. She pursed her mouth with distaste and opened the cell, standing back to let the man walk out. 

"You will contact your superiors and tell them you have been set free," Qui-Gon instructed, aware that his calm was only the thinnest veneer. Anger seethed just under the surface, and Qui-Gon savored it in silence beneath tight shields-- only he could know how close this man walked to death. "Then you may address your exclusivity negotiations to the attention of the Jedi Council on Coruscant." 

Millim's grin widened. "I want a transport to my offices in the city." 

"Escort him," Qui-Gon directed Kalari. He would not need to tell her to maintain surveillance; Birin and Kai were already prepared to pick up his trail as he left the facility. "Make every possible convenience available to him." 

Millim raised a brow, and a spark of dislike flashed between him and Qui-Gon; there was no love lost on either side. "Including a permanent Jedi companion, no doubt. Will you honor me yourself?" 

"You have no further value to me." Qui-Gon lifted his chin, looming over the smaller man. 

"Too busy watching holovision to bother?" He winked. 

Qui-Gon wanted to slap the smirk off Millim's face; somehow he managed to keep his hands dangling loosely at his sides. All it would take was a minute; a minute and the slightest precise whipcrack trickle of Force, and Qui-Gon could have everything he knew. If Misi was not there-- 

But she was. He stepped back, folding his hands inside his sleeves. "Ruoto Millim, I will find my padawan, and I will return him to his place within the Jedi. It is well for you that I will do this. If, by some chance, I do not--" he paused, again aware of Walek and of Misi, perhaps most of all of Walek. The boy was no less important or valuable than Obi-Wan; Qui-Gon would not have an impressionable lad see how badly a senior Jedi had darkened if he could help it. "We will meet again, and you will find this meeting very little to your liking, I think." 

The low purr of threat behind the calm of his words fell on fertile ground; it actually produced a flicker of fear in the man's eyes, and Qui-Gon would have to be satisfied with that-- for now. 

"Stay away from me, Jedi. We don't film without a contract and contract means legal." Millim prudently put Kalari between him and Qui-Gon. "Let's go," he blustered at her, and Qui-Gon watched him narrowly as they strode out. Another lead burned for nothing-- allowed to walk free, as Mace and Yoda insisted. 

Heeling at their command galled Qui-Gon bitterly. If this failed, Millim was not the only one with whom he would conduct an unpleasant interview. The one with the Council might be less... satisfactorily instructive, but it would without doubt be explosive in its own way. 

Qui-Gon remained silent as he accompanied the others back to the palace. The Jedi had created a file of their observations, so he uploaded it to his datapad. The Council had added to it as well. 

Qui-Gon spent the ride appending his own impressions-- mostly of his intuitions into Obi-Wan's psychological and physiological state, which might be helpful. He read the other notes carefully. There was speculation about the make of the transport and someone had confirmed the identities of the two previously unknown prisoners. He scanned a transcript of vocal remarks that had been edited from the final version of the holo and restored via electronic enhancement-- they were mostly directions on how to perform, enforced by threats-- nothing that offered a clue into Obi-Wan's whereabouts. 

Nothing. Nothing. And again, nothing. 

He set the analysis aside and checked his personal mail. Tahl had sent him more data about Dramacore, so he dove into that next. This was more telling. She had identified filming locations for several of the Dramacore shows, and provided insight into their extensive blackmail activities and illegal operations. It seemed they were well-accustomed to coercion, and they liked to carry out their business operations far outside the jurisdiction of Republic law: they made most of their holos on remote worlds whose native populace were not yet technologically advanced enough to develop long-range spaceflight on their own. 

He walked away from the others, unchallenged, when they reached the palace. Qui-Gon meandered toward his room, still staring at the location shots Tahl had included. He let his intuition drift, questing for currents in the Living Force. 

Qui-Gon flicked between photographs of cityscapes, remote mountain ranges, battle arenas, and amphitheaters. Tahl had sent copies of show holos, too-- mostly of combats or chases to the death. Qui-Gon began to watch, but after a time he paused the screen in the middle of a chase program. The image showed a creature he had never seen before. 

The thing ran on all fours like a cat, but could stand upright and even walk on its hind legs if it chose. It had a short tawny pelt, slightly longer on its head, with sharp fangs in both its upper and lower jaws. All four of its appendages were equipped with opposable thumbs. The thing would be possessed of incredible flexibility and speed over nearly any terrain, and its tactics displayed high, near-sentient intelligence combined with extreme predatory savagery. Long, scything, razor-sharp claws tipped all four of its oddly hand-like paws, partly retractable. Qui-Gon watched the remainder of the chase and learned that when it captured its quarry, the creature simply shredded the corpse and then devoured it. 

Those were likely the creatures from Obi-Wan's nightmares. Qui-Gon knew now that Obi-Wan had seen visions of his future. Why hadn't he listened? If he had, he could have linked his mind with Obi-Wan's and that would have afforded him the chance to see the visions for himself. He might have seen some landscape feature that would match these holos or some other clue that might have given a clue to a place to start looking for his padawan. 

Tabare might claim that nobody could have smuggled Tiran off Xinune, but Qui-Gon's intuitions insisted that the king was mistaken. Dramacore's methods were so dodgy that they would need to get their prisoners as far from the Republic and its laws as they could. 

How had the Dramacore transport, where the holo of Obi-Wan and the other prisoners had been shot, evaded royal port security? Bribes were one possibility; corrupt officials might easily be persuaded to sign off on a harmless-seeming cargo manifest or to skip the bio-scan inspection before a ship lifted off. He could consult Kalari about possibilities, but the planet was too large to narrow them down quickly enough for the information to be useful. Qui-Gon was already lagging dangerously and falling farther behind as he searched. 

He sighed, rubbing his eyes-- his afternoon sleep had not been adequate to rest him in body and mind, but he had to think in spite of that. 

The pornographic holo was only a distraction, if a potentially lucrative one; a Jedi gladiator would be pure gold in arena combat or in a chase. 

The nightmares indicated a chase was the more likely of the two. Qui-Gon nodded to himself. It made sense; a chase could easily be turned into a serial. Even without access to the Force, Obi-Wan's training rendered him a formidable runner. 

If only he could turn the odds in favor of finding Obi-Wan, he would leave Xinune; his instincts said there was little to be accomplished here. Increasingly, he sensed he needed to pursue the Dramacore vessel and be at hand when his padawan most needed him. 

He sent a transmission request to Tahl's comm code, scanning through the information again while waiting for his answer. She answered swiftly and her slender, dark features appeared before him. 

"Qui-Gon." She lifted her chin, welcoming but proud. 

"Tahl." He keenly felt the burden of words that were unsaid, but he did not have time for them. "Your information has been useful, but I must ask for more." 

She nodded once, her face impassive. 

"The Force leads me to believe Obi-Wan is meant for the chase. Do you have more information on the locations Dramacore prefers for shooting chase holos?" 

"Give me a minute." Her long slender fingers tapped tapped at the console as Qui-Gon watched. Objectively he could remember feeling love for her, even desire, but in the wake of his feelings for Obi-Wan, in the stress and growing despair of the fruitless search, there was nothing but friendship left. It made him feel strangely hollow inside as he watched her work; he didn't know what to say. 

"I can't be positive-- that's why I didn't include this information in my last transmission." Tahl's fingers flew. "But I believe time is of the essence; Dramacore usually doesn't keep captives alive for long. The viewers get bored easily, so the demand for new gladiators and new thrills is high." She moved effortlessly, reaching out to retrieve data chips unerringly despite her blindness. 

"The world or worlds they use aren't archived in any Republic holographic database, so I wasn't able to match city skylines or natural landscapes. I did get one thing that might be a lead, though." Tahl punched up an image; it replaced her face on Qui-Gon's screen. It was a still shot extracted from a night sequence showing a ridge of mountains half-eclipsing the sky. 

"Bant cataloged these for me. This shot is from one of their most popular chase programs, and it shows a decent slice of starscape. I ran it through the archive computer a dozen different ways. The computer was able to triangulate a planetary coordinate based on star positions. The shot is blurred from camera motion and the planet's light pollution washed out everything except a couple of dozen stars of the highest magnitude, but the computer says there's a 70% chance of accuracy. There actually is a world at the coordinates the computer suggested. I'm transmitting planetary coordinates and information now." 

She hesitated, tapping at her keyboard with one long finger. "There's no guarantee that's the only planet they use for the chase, but several of the most recently released episodes contained skylines that matched the world where this starshot was taken." 

Qui-Gon grimaced. 70% accuracy on the star scan plus an indefinite ID of the planetary base? It wasn't good enough, but it would have to be. He trusted Tahl's intuitions. 

"Does the Council know about your findings?" 

"No." She looked at him sightlessly, raising one delicate brow. "Do you think they should?" 

"Give me a week, then tell them. They can do whatever they like." 

Her lips curved up very slightly. "I would not want to be Dramacore or anything else that might be foolish enough to stand between you and Obi-Wan." 

Qui-Gon flushed, glad that she could not see it. "Tahl, I..." the words dried up. 

"Find him," she said simply. "May the Force be with you, Qui-Gon." 

Qui-Gon's course of action was clear at last; he felt the rightness of it in the Force. 

Hastily, Qui-Gon signaled King Tabare. The king still looked as if he hadn't slept; his eyes sunken and deeply shadowed. "I have increasing reason to believe Tiran and Obi-Wan have been smuggled off-planet," Qui-Gon told him quietly. "I believe I know where they are being taken. The Force is leading me in this." 

Tabare looked at Qui-Gon with haunted eyes. "I hope so, Master Jedi. Do you need a fast ship?" 

"No, I have one of my own." 

"Then I'll have Kalari give you take-off clearance right away." 

"Thank you. I'll communicate when I can." Qui-Gon cut the link and rapidly packed Obi-Wan's things, then his own, including a generous supply of ration concentrates and water. The transport he and Obi-Wan had taken from Coruscant was swift, but not swift enough; bulky and unwieldy, with a crew complement of six, it would slow Qui-Gon down. Fortunately, it was not their only craft. Obi-Wan's Delta 6 starfighter was along for the journey, docked sleekly to the transport's flank along with a powerful hyperspace drive ring. With that, Qui-Gon could halve the duration of any potential hyperspace travel. He was not the natural pilot Obi-Wan was; as a devotee of the Living Force, he preferred to fight with his feet on the ground, but he could acquit himself well enough in a fighter if he had to. 

Only when he was settling into the uncomfortably tight cockpit did he message Misi. 

"What do you have?" She could feel it in the Force, then; her voice was tense with expectation. 

"I don't know yet. But I believe I may know where they're taking Obi-Wan. I'll transmit coordinates. Misi..." he hesitated. "I know you have reason to distrust my objectivity in this matter. But I ask you not to inform the Council of this." 

She paused. "And King Tabare?" 

"He should follow your lead. I've told him what I'm doing." 

"You walk a dangerous line, Master Jinn." Her voice was sober, and he knew she did not mean setting out to rescue Obi-Wan alone. "Obi-Wan would not want you to lose yourself for him." She sighed. "The Dark Side is taking root in you, Qui-Gon. You've lost more than your objectivity about this. I've felt your anger and your excessive attachment to Obi-Wan. They cloud your mind." Her voice gentled, trying to soften the blow. "We've all felt it. Your future is uncertain and many of your paths lead to shadow." 

"I can control it." Qui-Gon lied, hoping he would find a way. "But I'll do what I must to save my padawan." 

"That's what I'm afraid of." She terminated the conversation abruptly. He dismissed her from his mind. She was right-- but he had spoken the only truth that mattered to him now. 

Qui-Gon blasted out of Xinune's gravity well without incident and programmed the hyperdrive with Tahl's coordinates. As the starfield stretched into hyperspace, he reached for as much of the Living Force as he could gather. It was enough to set a deep meditative trance, one that would rest him and reduce the resources he consumed during his trip. Force willing, it would also help him master himself.

*****************************

GLOSSARY

Arilan: Some group of people somewhere near the Galactic Core who own a hell of a lot of holotransmission emitters. 

Arranhar: "To claw" in Portuguese (Verb form used as plural noun here because it's cool-sounding). The name of the clawed species that are Dramacore's preferred pursuit predators. Singular: Arranha. I am told this also means "skyscraper" in colloquial Portuguese. So much for the language resource I used to find out its meaning! 

Bant: Master Tahl's padawan learner, Obi-Wan's best friend. 

Bilam: Male employee of Dramacore. Fat, bald, and cruel, but not too smart. Gets off on physical torture of prisoners. Wears filthy grey coverall. Not the guy you wanna be if you dislike choking. 

Birin: Generic Jedi Knight responding to Qui-Gon's call for backup on Xinune. 

Cai: Partner to Knight Birin. Generic helpful backup Jedi and faceless pawn in the horrible machinations of Lilith Sedai. 

Cido: Male prisoner of Dramacore. Also generic. 

_Damnú ort, streachailt leathair Jedi striapach!:_ Damn you, fucking (literally, 'leather stretching') Jedi whore! 

Delta 6: Obi-Wan's single-man starfighter at the time of this fic, equipped with a hyperspace ring for long-distance travel. See Wookieepedia. 

Draigon: A creature referenced in the Jedi Apprentice YA book series, these are probably pretty much just small dragons. Obi-Wan fought them as a very young man before Qui-Gon took him as his padawan. 

Dramacore: Holovid company, notorious for reality broadcasts of to-the-death gladiatorial combat and hard-core pornography. Filthy rich. Kidnaps people to make them stars. Doesn't always pay out to stars/prisoners as promised if they win. 

_Feisigh do thoin fein:_ Fuck your own ass. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Gida: Female prisoner of Dramacore, has survived one arena combat. Scarred and cynical, the most experienced of the prisoners. I based her on Zooey Deschanel, but you don't have to think of her that way if you don't like. 

_Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat:_ May the cat eat you and the devil eat the cat. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

_Go hifreann leat, cailleach:_ Go to hell, you old witch. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Jata: Male Dramacore employee, thin with white, tightly-curled hair. Clever bastard who gets up to psychological games with prisoners. You don't wanna be him, either. 

Jom: Male lieutenant under Captain Kalare in King Tabare's personal guard force. 

Kalari: Female captain of King Tabare's personal guard force. 

_Ki-Gün Djinn is ainm dom:_ My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). Wow, this is a bad one; any linguist worth a damn would beat me half to death for combining fake Arabic names with words from Irish Gaelic and blaming it all on one culture. If you wanted to go through the same mental gymnastics and web inquiries I did, you'd discover this phrase means something very like "Qui-Gon Jinn is the name on me." The only justification for the Djinn using Irish Gaelic as their native language is, of course, Liam Neeson's irrepressible Irish brogue, which by default has to be the faint remnant of Qui-Gon's first language (blame George for hiring an Irishman who is constitutionally incapable of saying 'anything' instead of 'ennathin,' and then telling him he has to try to sound American). 

Maj'lis: A particularly dominant young male arranha, difficult to control. Has killed keepers. 

Majnun Djinn: One of the reclusive Djinn, an employee of Dramacore who works as chief handler for the arranhar. Majnun is Arabic for "Familiar spirit," which is, simply enough, a synonym for "Djinn." I am also told that this research was inadequate, and that Majnun means crazy/obsessive/etc. But I already had it in place, so I'm stuck with it. The only religious or political significance I intend by using "Djinn" is a vague mythological association with wizards and giants-- and George already did that anyway when he named Qui-Gon. I based Majnun on a friend of mine who has about the right body type, but who would probably kill me with his bare hands for me cursing him with long hair. And he'd have EVERY right to. Sorry, A. B. M.! 

Mirani: Female prisoner of Dramacore. 

Misi Raksen: A Jedi watchman, specializing in the culture, lore, and situations of the sector where Xinune is located. Uses a yellow lightsaber. 

_Mo Athair:_ my father. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

_Mo dheartháir:_ my brother. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

Nosaurian: See Nosaurian on Wookieepedia. 

Ruoto Millim: Male Dramacore employee. High level, oily, sleazebucket. Think a combination of Eddie Izzard in Velvet Goldmine and Richard Dawson in The Running Man. 

She'ba: A female arranha, old enough that she is extremely docile and agreeable by comparison to the others, but still extremely deadly and easily angered. 

Sljee: The only sentient being I could find on Wookieepedia that was bountifully equipped with the fully articulated tentacles I required for executing Jata's nefarious script. See on Wookieepedia. 

Slave minder: A small transmitter implanted in a slave, constantly transmitting the slave's location to its owner's comm console. They are rigged to explode upon removal, remote trigger, or in response to tampering, so that slaves can't cut them out and run away. 

So'lis: Majnun Djinn's preferred partner arranha. Male, very quick and agile. 

Stereme: City in which Dramacore has a facility for filming and supporting chase programs. Chases in which the target survives end here. 

_Tá tú glan as do mheabhair:_ You are completely out of your mind. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Tabare: King who calls for Jedi assistance with finding his missing son. 

Tahl: Jedi Master, Loremaster, Qui-Gon's long-time romantic interest, though they remained celibate. Blinded during her last mission as a Jedi Guardian and rescued by Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. I based her on Jada Pinkett Smith, but who knows what George thinks? 

Takat: City in which King Tabare's palace is located; government seat of his realm. 

Taq: Male prisoner of Dramacore, seems unusually perceptive and might have a small amount of Force sensitivity. Not very resilient. Based on a young Cary Elwes. 

Tiran: Prince; Tabare's son, kidnapped by Dramacore. Obi-Wan's old friend and lover. Based on a young Christian Bale. Mmmmm, pretty. 

_Titim gan éirí ort:_ May you fall without rising. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Walek: 10-year-old padawan learner to Master Misi Raksen (age as of this segment of the story). 

Xinune: Planet on which Tabare is King; Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are sent there to investigate Prince Tiran's disappearance.


	2. The Devil and the Cat

Whenever the men were unable to maintain erections any longer, the recording sessions ended. The actors were unceremoniously flung back in with the remainder of the prisoners and fed the usual protein swill in the communal trough. The food didn't go as far as it once had; every few days they paused to pick up new victims-- some human, but more of them not, and though the number of appetites increased, the ration did not. The room had begun to get crowded and sanitary facilities were inadequate, forcing them to mark out distinct territories for elimination scattered around the hold so that they would not wind up sleeping in their own sewage. 

Exhausted and sore, Obi-Wan slumped to the deck in the sleeping area, too tired to think of eating. He looked over at Taq, who lay where he had fallen. He was curled into himself, trembling. Obi-Wan did not envy him; Taq's assigned role as a masochistic bottom was proving to be more than he could bear. Obi-Wan grimaced, trying to cope with his guilt; he had not enjoyed playing his part as the sadistic top, either-- but he had learned his lesson early on when they punished him for showing reluctance by beating the others if his performance failed to satisfy. 

Before Obi-Wan could move to comfort him, Gida went and coaxed Taq into the sleeping area, then curled up with him. She began stroking his back. It was just as well; Taq usually wanted none of Obi-Wan's clumsy apologies or well-intended attempts at comfort. Obi-Wan could sympathize; it had to be hard to face the man who'd just fisted you against your will. 

Obi-Wan sighed, his stomach turning with guilt, and glanced at Tiran, who slumped next to him, also watching Taq. 

"He's not handling it," Tiran murmured. "They picked him to be pretty, not because he's tough." 

"It doesn't help that they made him the victim." Obi-Wan sighed. "It would be better if that were me." He, at least, knew how to distance himself from his pain and accept that what happened to his body did not have to stain his mind or spirit. But it wasn't what Jata wanted. Obi-Wan had it easy-- the director seemed to prefer having him be the cruel one. 

"It won't help him in the arena, either." Tiran stared at the bulkhead, morose. "None of us will last long if that's where we wind up. Except maybe you." 

"Not with this Force inhibitor in me I won't." Obi-Wan rubbed his belly. He could feel the capsule there, a tiny lump harder than the surrounding flesh, slowly releasing the Force-damping drug into his bloodstream. It was hardly noticeable, and it sat very near the surface, but if it truly were explosive, as Bilam warned.... 

Tiran was watching his fingers. "Why don't you just cut it out? I know you can ignore pain." 

"Bilam said it'll explode if I try." Obi-Wan sighed. There was no way out; without the Force there were too many to rescue, too many foes to fight. Between the drugs, the air-tight hold, and the constant guarding, there had been no way even to think of breaking free to flee in the ship's escape pods. 

"Like a slave minder?" Tiran sagged. "I hadn't thought of that." His faith in Obi-Wan's miraculous Jedi abilities had waned steadily as the days went on with no rescue in sight. 

"My master will find us," Obi-Wan tried to reassure him-- tried to reassure them both. It was becoming a litany even he had to work to believe; because of the drugs, Qui-Gon would not be able to sense him within the Force. "Or I'll see an opportunity. The Force will provide." 

Tiran slid closer to him; the deckplates were uninsulated and they were very cold. He drew one of the thin, rough blankets over their bodies. "Then we'll go home," he said dully. 

Obi-Wan blinked at his friend's lack of enthusiasm. 

"After that I'll have to get married," Tiran explained, tucking his forehead against Obi-Wan's shoulder. 

Oh. "Better that than this." Obi-Wan tried to be positive. 

"Is it?" Tiran's hand slid over Obi-Wan's chest as he nestled up against Obi-Wan's back. "It'll just be another prison-- even if it's a gilded one. At least here," his voice dropped too low for the others to hear him, "I can fuck someone I actually want." 

Obi-Wan let his eyes drift shut. "That does take a bit of the sting out of it-- at least for the two of us." Not that either of their chafed, sore bodies were up for anything now, even if they had been eager for it emotionally, which they definitely were not. All of them were raw and miserable. So far Dramacore's medical care did not extend past a few antiseptics for Taq when Obi-Wan was forced to draw blood-- that is, if you didn't count all the drugs that made them perform as directed. 

"When we're in the arena, or if we're running," Tiran hesitated so long that Obi-Wan began to wonder if he'd gone to sleep, "the weak ones will hold us back." 

Obi-Wan bit his lip. His conscience told him there was only one answer he could give. "Then you will have to decide whether to stay with us or go on." 

"But the two of us would stand a better--" 

"Tiran. I'm a Jedi." 

"And you were sent to find and rescue the Prince of Xinune. I'm your mission. There are too many of us; you can't save them all, Obi-Wan." 

Obi-Wan sank his teeth in his lip until he tasted blood. It was true; sometimes the path of duty did not travel alongside the path of altruism. 

"Plus if we spread out, there'll be a better chance for some of us to evade the arranhar." 

"Tiran." Obi-Wan silenced him with a stern tone. "We'll have to do as the Force guides us when the time comes. Maybe it won't come down to a choice." 

Maybe not, but he didn't believe his optimistic words. He shifted, eyeing Taq, who had quieted and was sleeping softly in Gida's arms. Gida looked over Taq's shoulder and grimaced helplessly at him. 

Obi-Wan had never seen her cry; she was strong. When her turn came for abuse at his hand, she took it with her jaw set and left it behind her in the studio. She did not blame him for it as Taq seemed to. 

He lay still and eventually Tiran subsided into sleep behind him. He resisted his weariness, though, wondering if the conversation they'd just had illustrated the exact reason the Jedi felt personal connections were a problem. Certainly his prior relationship with Tiran changed the dynamics of his mission. As former lovers, they found the sexual aspects of this situation less unpleasant than they might, but until now he hadn't considered the potential drawbacks of the association. 

Being shut away from the Force was difficult; he'd spent his whole life relying on its intuitions and promptings. Trying to figure these things out on his own might eventually drive him mad. Maybe that was why Qui-Gon always nagged him to live in the moment. 

Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan's stomach fluttered with guilt. His master must be deeply worried, but he would be following. Obi-Wan knew he would. Qui-Gon would find a way. 

Gida stirred, the motion drawing his eye; she abandoned Taq to a puppy pile of others and slipped across the deck to kneel by Obi-Wan. He shifted, making room for her, and she slid into his arms to share warmth. 

"I'm worried for him." 

"As are we." Obi-Wan confessed. "Gida, I don't want to hurt him, but--" 

"You have no choice. None of us do." She shivered slightly. "This is much better than the Arena, Obi-Wan. I don't think Taq understands that." 

"He may have to learn." Obi-Wan touched his forehead to hers. 

She shook her head, eyes shadowed. "Damn few of us will have time to learn anything at all." 

Obi-Wan bit his lip and nodded, then he pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin. "Rest," he advised her softly. 

"We'll need it." Her voice was hopeless, but she settled against him anyway. He felt her lashes brush lightly against his throat as she closed her eyes and slid into sleep. 

He had never believed a Jedi could feel so helpless. 

*****

His month of transit complete, Qui-Gon popped out of hyperspace near a sun that was slowly transitioning itself into a white dwarf, his comm panel lighting up immediately with transmissions. He found excuses to delay checking them, busy rousing himself from the remnants of his hibernation trance, stretching cramped muscles, and having his first good look at Tahl's planet. Unnamed except for a number on the galactic charts, the world looked pristine and unspoiled-- at least from space. Even the darkness of the disc beyond the planetary terminator betrayed only a few light sources. The Force whispered to him; his choice felt right. Something was down there; all his senses told him his answers waited here. 

The surface of the planet was perhaps 60% water; land masses floated serenely on blue-green oceans with white clouds dappling the crystal-pure atmosphere. The Living Force was very strong on this world, as the environment was still relatively undamaged by sentient civilization. There was little of significance on the world other than natural beauty; his scanners showed few precious metals or other resources of monetary worth. This world's value lay in its seclusion on the boundary between the Outer Rim and Wild Space and its lack of membership in the Republic. 

Finally he could delay no longer and he tapped to see his messages. Yoda appeared on the tiny holopad first, Mace at his shoulder. They both looked as if they had bitten into their morning gi-fruit and found half of a baka worm inside. 

Yoda glanced up at Mace, giving him his cue. Mace began smoothly. "We have been notified of your intent to locate Dramacore's base of activities and attempt to rescue Obi-Wan. You should have cleared this with us, Qui-Gon. The Dramacore representative, Ruoto Millim-- he demands that you serve as the Jedi's negotiator or they won't deal." 

Qui-Gon hissed through his teeth. He hadn't considered that possibility, but it made sense. They knew they had the Senate in a vise, and they would make the utmost use of their leverage. Putting him into the negotiator's seat would immobilize and neutralize him.

Yoda looked up at Qui-Gon sadly, tapping patterns on the floor at his feet with his stick. "No accord will Dramacore make, not until conditions are met. No accord is made and operations proceed. Move against them, I have, but diplomacy takes time. Help us stall them, you could. Our operatives have seen much already-- more videos have been made. Circulated, they have. Report back to Coruscant at once, Master Jinn. This the Supreme Chancellor expressly requires." 

Like hell. Qui-Gon gritted his teeth. As if Dramacore could have been counted on to keep their bargain in the first place? And now the Senate wanted him to abandon Obi-Wan to try to chase a cat that was already out of the bag? 

"Is there a response?" The computer queried politely. Half a dozen more transmissions awaited from the same source, each coded urgent. 

"No. Delete similar messages," Qui-Gon instructed coldly. He did not need to open the others; he could sense the Force telling him what he needed to know. The Council and the Senate were extremely displeased and ignoring their orders would not be without consequences. So be it. He would deal with that after Obi-Wan was safe. 

Three of the other transmissions were from Dramacore itself-- additional pornography samples featuring Obi-Wan in the starring role. Dramacore had the Jedi and the Senate by the short hairs and they clearly intended to twist the balls right off them all. Qui-Gon resisted the temptation to scan the samples. Obi-Wan must be in them, alive, or they would not have been sent to him. As long as his padawan was alive there was hope. 

Another transmission was more welcome, this one containing new information Tahl had gathered. She had conducted analyses of the new holo samples with blessedly clinical descriptions of their contents. She had also obtained business records pertaining to Ruoto Millim. Tahl had identified some of the other victims in the holograms and sent biographical sketches of each. Qui-Gon committed them to memory. He sent her no message, either; from the way this had gone so far, he had a hunch she might need to use all possible deniability before this was over. The automatic message receipt notification would be answer enough. 

Finished, he sank himself into the Force and reached for the moment. His senses guided him across the curve of the planet's face and toward the terminator. He switched off his navicomp and let the Force work through him; it led him to a mountain ridge near one of the larger cities on the back of the planet. Under the cover of night he maneuvered the small fighter into a narrow valley, nestling it all but invisibly under a thick, tangled canopy of evergreen fir branches. 

The tilt of the planet on its axis meant that this hemisphere was just finishing a winter cycle. The air was very cold and still; the ground and the vegetation were furred with a thick, white carpet of frost. He could see the lights of the city in the distance and hear the city beckoning through the Force. There was no flicker of Obi-Wan's presence, but Qui-Gon could easily sense the distinctive aura of Dramacore-- a wrongness that felt almost like cancer on the peaceful landscape, extending its tendrils wide. Turbulent energies surrounded it and permeated its field of influence. 

Qui-Gon climbed stiffly out of the cockpit and stretched, then dug into his pack. His Jedi robes would be too distinctive to wear here. He replaced them with a short homespun green tabard and a rough leather belt, then pulled long, brown gauntlet gloves over his hands, flexing them experimentally to test for any impediment to his motion. Satisfied, he shouldered into a heavy brown jacket and slid his lightsaber inside the front seam, where he'd had a pocket constructed especially to conceal it. Last he bound his long hair up in a single tail at the nape of his neck. He might be a miner, or a farmer, or any type of rough laborer. It would do. 

He set forth at a rapid trot, sinking into the Living Force and letting his long legs eat the miles between himself and the city. 

Dawn had begun to shimmer on the glass fronts of the buildings by the time he found his way to the outskirts, shushing guard animals with a subtle wave of his hand, keeping to shadows and alleys until he found a populated thoroughfare where his presence would not seem amiss. He watched for currency to change hands at a small open cafe, confirming he had none of the local vintage-- then went in himself. A touch of Force confused the waiter sufficiently to procure him a sparing but well-prepared breakfast of bread and seasoned meat with fruit juice. 

He sat on an exterior patio and chewed, watching the traffic patterns in the city and waiting for further guidance. Most of the workers were afoot, only a few riding public transportation vehicles. Despite the low-tech development, the populace was heterogenous. A wide variety of beings walked in the streets: humanoids of nearly every stripe, a few Gamorreans, a Wookiee or two, and-- Qui-Gon blinked. 

A tall man strode across the street past the cafe. His hair was long and sandy blond. He wore it bound into a tail down his back with a folded covering knotted over the top of his head. A complex geometric clan-mark decorated the cloth. Like Qui-Gon, he was noticeably larger than most other near-humanoids, raw-boned, his shoulders broad and his chest deep, his legs long. Like Qui-Gon, he had blue eyes and a prominent nose; his hands were large and his stride loose and easy. As Qui-Gon watched, a lad on a rocket-scooter shot up behind him and he dodged to one side with deceptive lightness for someone of his bulk, barely noticing. He was strong in the Force, then, though clearly not Jedi-trained. 

He was a Djinn. The clan-mark made it a certainty. 

Qui-Gon gulped down the rest of his breakfast, swallowed his juice, and swung out easily into the street, his curiosity piqued. Djinn did not often leave their home system; they preferred to keep to themselves. Qui-Gon himself was quite a rarity. Though they were strong in the Force and many had high midichlorian counts, Djinn parents were extremely reluctant to give up their children to the Jedi, preferring to keep them within the clan. The Temple records said Qui-Gon had been orphaned with no close relatives left to take him; only thus had he become a Jedi. 

He had rarely seen any of his fellow Djinn himself. Most of his knowledge came second-hand from research into his own origins. But he had a clan mark that had been tattooed into his shoulder before he was ever taken to the Jedi creche, and he should be accepted as kin, though possibly with suspicion. 

"Hello, _mo dheartháir,"_ he greeted the other, who gave him a reserved nod. 

"You didn't come on the transport with us," the man observed. His voice was deeper than Qui-Gon's, with a rough husk, and he spoke in a thick, sing-song accent. He smelled of smoke and another, more pungent smell-- some sort of large animal musk, if Qui-Gon was any judge. 

"I've only just arrived. I'm still looking for work. It was good to see a clan sigil." 

"And yet, I see none." 

Qui-Gon shrugged. "Your pardon. My possessions were lost and I have not been able to replace them. I bear my mark elsewhere." They stopped and the man watched without comment as Qui-Gon shrugged one shoulder out of his jacket and pulled down his collar, revealing the small blue tattoo on his shoulder. 

The other Djinn blinked. "I had thought your clan all passed beyond, long ago." 

"I remain." Qui-Gon ventured a small smile. "I have been off the homeworld for many years." 

Ice-blue eyes studied him minutely. "So it seems. You have the sound of the offworlders on your tongue, but I can hear our tongue, also." He bowed very slightly, from the waist. "I am Majnun Djinn." 

_"Ki-Gün Djinn is ainm dom,"_ Qui-Gon gave his birth name in polite response in their shared language, returning the bow. Majnun clasped his wrist. 

"My clan has accepted jobs with a company whose headquarters are nearby," Majnun offered. "They were disappointed only ten new men came to answer their request. There are thirty Djinn there, more or less. You're welcome to join me, if you'd like. If you have skill with beasts, they may hire you." 

"Beasts? What sort?" Qui-Gon fell in next to him effortlessly; it felt good not to have to shorten his stride to keep pace with a shorter person. "Riding beasts? Herd beasts?" 

"Hunting beasts," Majnun said. "Felines." 

"I have a way with all beasts," Qui-Gon said, concealing his sudden sharp interest beneath a placid smile. Majnun had to mean the arranhar. 

"Good, because these aren't lap cats," Majnun warned. "They're wildcats and they have claws that can slice through a transparisteel viewport. We work as handlers-- we feed them, groom them, exercise them, and manage them in the hunt or while on guard. We tell them whom they should not kill." He paused, his eyes sliding toward Qui-Gon, expectant. 

"And also whom they _should_ kill?" Qui-Gon inquired lazily, nonchalant. 

"The time and money are right." Majnun shrugged. "There is much our families need back on the home world. Like you, those of us who are here have chosen to leave for a time so that we can send home money for food and medicine. Under such arrangements, it is easily seen that outside the clans there are many whose continued existence is... less than consequential." 

"I understand you perfectly." Qui-Gon inclined his head with a faint smile. "They are only outworlders, after all." 

"I think you will be ideal," Majnun approved. He turned them aside and swiped an identification card through a slot mounted beside a grey steel door, which slid open. 

Qui-Gon stepped inside out of the light as the door slid closed behind him. 

Majnun led him down a labyrinth of corridors until they emerged in a courtyard ringed with repulsor-field cages. Inside each cage crouched a mountain of claws, hair, and fangs, yellow slit eyes all fixed on the newcomers as they emerged and stepped into the center of the area. 

"The arranhar," Majnun gestured to them. "Each one wears a collar. If you focus you may find you can become aware of their minds." He handed a helmet to Qui-Gon; it was padded inside with a sweaty rag, and its top was spiked. Wings swept back across the face of the helmet, providing a guard for the wearer's eyes. Qui-Gon wrestled it onto his head. 

"Direct your thoughts at the green gem on the cat's collar," Majnun advised him. "Through it, you may find you can tell the arranha what to do. At times, it may prove rather difficult to get it to listen. It is best to anticipate such times and remove yourself from the cat's reach beforehand." His voice was dry. "Try it now." 

His voice receded suddenly as he stepped away. Qui-Gon lifted his head, unsurprised to see the field at the front of one cage fade. The arranha inside stirred, shaking itself and rising to its feet with an air of lazy menace. Its green eyes narrowed and fastened on Qui-Gon as it padded forth to investigate. 

Qui-Gon reached out and touched the gem easily with his mind. It was a Force-enhancer, keyed to the animal; hastily he reached for the shape of its energy matrix, found the pattern, and slid his mind inside it, then through it. He extended his hand, unspeaking, palm outstretched perpendicular to the ground. He did not bother to vocalize; the crystal made this simple enough that a gesture would suffice. 

The animal stopped, its eyes narrowing; it growled, lips drawing back from fangs as long as Qui-Gon's foot. Its claws scored the sandy stone ground with a sound like a strip-saw peeling back the hull of a junked spacecraft. 

Qui-Gon locked eyes with it for a long moment, then moved his hand so that his palm lay sideways, fingers toward the beast. It sat, roaring at him with annoyance; he could not suppress a flicker of pride. Next he stepped forward and let his palm move so that it pointed to the floor. The arranha lay down, its tail lashing. Ignoring Majnun's gasp, he stepped forward once more, then again, gauging the thing's mind-- it was startled but not truly angry. He lowered his palm a foot and the cat lay down on its side. 

_"Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!"_ Majnun breathed the curse in reverent tones. 

Qui-Gon stepped around the arranha, examining it for evidence of rebellion, maintaining careful, even strides so as not to alarm the beast. Finding no resistance, he looked up at Majnun. "Do I have the job?" 

Moments later, Qui-Gon Jinn, the newest employee of the Dramacore corporation, was on his way to be fitted for his uniform, issued a lodging in the trainers' dormitory, and given duties. 

***** 

Majnun assigned Qui-Gon a simple job as his first: he was to take one of the older arranhar, a relatively docile female, and stand an evening's security watch in the Gamblers' Club. 

"Not that there's likely to be much trouble-- not tonight; we're between combat cycles, so there won't be much wagering. But the clients want to come in anyway and see the show; they like to eye up the talent." He chuckled, contemptuous. "There's a new episode almost every night and we have a firecracker of a series going now. At least, the bosses think so. The club is jammed every night with people who want to watch." 

"Why so much interest?" Qui-Gon asked. "If there's no battle and no betting." 

"There's plenty to watch-- you'll see what I mean. Supposedly management has found themselves a Jedi. Not much of one, if he let himself get caught for the show; I have my doubts that he's real. But the bettors believe it and he's pretty enough to be a big draw." 

Qui-Gon smoothed the flare of tension and anger carefully; Majnun was untrained, but might still be sensitive enough to sense a lapse in control. "They have a Jedi caged here?" Perhaps there was hope.... 

"No, not here. The club show is a hologram recording. Their pet Jedi probably won't arrive here for a while yet. When he does, they won't be fools enough to put him on display in the club, not if he's a real Jedi. They'll save him for the arena battles or for the chase. They won't risk letting him run amok with the clients nearby. Not before the wagering starts, anyway." Majnun spat. "Jedi are trouble." 

"That they are," Qui-Gon agreed mildly. "Are there often battles here?" Qui-Gon pulled on his uniform breeches of brown leather and laced them closed. 

"Usually. And we're in charge of making sure things go as they should." Majnun shook out the brown leather singlet that made the next layer of Qui-Gon's outfit and helped him on with it, then lifted the heavy armor shirt that went over that. It took visible effort. "These things are awful," he warned. "Far too heavy for running or fighting, but the bosses think they sell the product." 

The shirt was indeed heavy; it was metal, golden scales cunningly joined to look like the skin of a draigon, ebbing and flowing, following the motions of Qui-Gon's muscles. It lapped over his hips behind and split at the front to allow him to move; it flowed like water-- and offered about as much protection. 

"The armor won't turn claws; it won't turn anything except clubs and fists or maybe a metal blade, but it's pretty, and that's what the bosses think matters." Majnun straightened a few scales that had been knocked awry. "Here's your helmet." 

Qui-Gon took it and put it on. There was no way to bring along his lightsaber, not with Majnun watching him. The cat would simply have to serve if he required a weapon. 

Majnun put on armor of his own and together they led the arranha to a large service lift, which rose slowly for a span of many meters before halting, its doors opening to deposit them onto a raised dais in a recessed alcove overlooking an enormous room with a bar stretching along three walls. The other wall was made of transparisteel and looked out over the glittering city and to the mountains beyond, where Qui-Gon's ship lay hidden. His dais was strategically positioned in the corner between the view and the end of the bar, turned at an angle so that it commanded a view of the entire space. 

The room was formed in a shallow pit, tiers of seating stacked around a central dance floor. It was empty of all but staff-- bartenders, waiters, and waitresses all busily preparing the area for clients, polishing tables and inlaid metal, filling shakers of spices, and providing necessaries like napkins or new flowers wherever needed. There were no serving droids, not even an electronic drink mixing unit; bottles stood in neat, backlit rows on shelves behind the bar, a glittering display of exotic jewels. Tables and chairs arranged neatly on tiers of flooring surrounded the empty area at the center of the room and an array of holographic projectors hung from the ceiling above: the area could double as both dance floor and projection pad. 

The arranha knew its business. Leaving the lift and padding forward, it levered itself onto a thick, hair-dusted cushion. Then it stretched and put its head down. Qui-Gon could feel its boredom, but also its anticipation of the evening. 

"You'll watch the clients and interfere if there's trouble-- yes, you're a glorified bouncer and she's your weapon. I'd usually stay with a new man for the first week or more to ensure he has control of the cat, but I think you can manage her without my help." Majnun grinned at him. "If you look all right after an hour or two, there are things I need to be doing elsewhere." His gaze moved to the arranha and he smiled, looking almost fond. "Her name is She'ba." 

The arranha shifted at the word, yawning and exposing needle-sharp teeth and gleaming fangs. A beam of light from the setting sun fell on her couch and she stretched, basking in the golden glow. Qui-Gon laid his hand on her head. She'ba flicked an ear forward for stroking, and Qui-Gon obliged her. 

"I shouldn't need her. I have a way with people." Qui-Gon found just the place she wanted to be scratched, and she began to rumble so loudly that the scales of his armor jingled with the vibration. 

Majnun chuckled. "If your way with people is as good as your way with the cats, then I'd better start looking for another job." 

"I don't think you need to worry." Qui-Gon looked around the room. "I'm grateful for your help and I know my place. Speaking of my place, do I stay up here with the cat or may I wander?" 

"As you like. There's a repulsor-field generator here," Majnun gestured, "And a remote control pad here." He handed over the small device. "Tuck that in your pocket. Leave the field up unless there's trouble. The field stretches across the front of this space and she can't get through it-- or I should say, she won't go through it, not unless she's in a rare fit of rage and willing to take some burns to get at what she wants. Release the field when you need backup and feed her an image of what you want done. Be sure to select a target and send its image strongly when you call her; she's much harder to deter after she fixates on her prey. If she chooses the wrong victim, there will be some unpleasantness, of course. A great deal of it for her prey, and afterward the management won't be at all pleased with you. You'll be disciplined, and that isn't always limited to docking your pay. But everything that goes on in here is recorded; if you call her, the security vids will back you up as long as you direct her at the troublemakers." 

"I will only call on her in a dire emergency." Qui-Gon meant it; he would not want to loose such a beast in a room of innocents. 

"We still have a few minutes before nightfall." Majnun tilted his head, inviting Qui-Gon to follow him. "You have a 'fresher cubicle behind that door-- use it as little as you have to; I'd use it before the club opens so you don't need it later. And hit that control pad, will you?" He stepped off the dais and to the bar. "Behind the bar, in this lockbox, is a cache of blasters if they're needed. Let me key your palm to the lock..." he punched in a code and reached for Qui-Gon's hand. "Just so. Now it'll open for you. Not that She'ba won't be enough, but better safe than sorry. Clients are forbidden to carry any kind of weapons on the premises; if you see someone has one, you can make him leave. If someone pulls one, that's what She'ba is for. If someone starts a fistfight, she can end it. Company policy is zero tolerance for violence inside the building or in the waiting area, and the clients know the penalty." He flexed his long fingers into claws and his eyes gleamed inside his helmet as he closed them to illustrate his point. 

"Are there other transgressions to watch for?" 

"Not really-- 'no violence' covers everything from damaging the facility and furnishings to damaging patrons or staff. If people want to lie down on the floor and have sex or fry their brains with drugs, they're welcome to it as long as they don't inconvenience anyone else excessively-- you can make them move to clear the walkways if you want. They sign a release accepting the club's authority when they come in, including an agreement that means the company owns the security video and can sell it, too." Majnun grinned. "You're not supposed to play, though; you have to stay alert." 

He moved onward. "This is the door to the clients' refresher. You may need to come in here and discourage bad behavior from time to time. If you see a need, you can tell one of the barkeeps to call a cleaning crew. Up on the dais where you stand, you'll see a row of vid screens tucked up behind the cornice line; the ceiling is higher in there than out here. The screens feed you all the security camera footage-- in the refresher, behind the bars, out in the waiting line, in the cloak room, and angles from various parts of the room. Things can get obscured when it's full of people." Finished with the circuit of the room, he led Qui-Gon back to the dais. 

"If you need backup, double-punch the repulsor-field button and an alarm will sound below; the other keepers and I will come up immediately with more arranhar and with blasters." Majnun shrugged. "That hasn't been necessary for as long as I've been here. Usually one arranha is more than enough to cool off any hot tempers; everyone's seen what they can do on the chase holos." 

"Actually I haven't," Qui-Gon lied pleasantly. "Though I assume it's impressive." 

"You'll have plenty of chances to watch tonight. They re-run programs over the dance floor all night long; you can catch the highlights and get a feel for what you'll be doing when the combat cycle begins." 

He nodded, glancing over his shoulder; the sun was just sinking behind the mountains, sending their long shadows out to encompass the city. As darkness fell he went to his place and waited for clients to enter the bar. 

It was easy at first. Majnun stayed at his side, as promised, for a while. The patrons had not yet begun to drink in earnest and the crowd was light. People danced in the center of the pit, with holos flashing overhead-- and while the crowd was calm, Qui-Gon had leisure to watch the arranhar at work. It went much as he had suspected; claws that could shred transparisteel made rapid confetti of organic bodies. It made him think of the girl in the holovid with Obi-Wan; he did not doubt one of these had raked her with its claws, but she had survived. Maybe she wished she hadn't. 

Majnun stepped out after a time and Qui-Gon's focus sharpened. He paid more attention to the security vid screens, alert for trouble. The energy of the room was changing; some few patrons had overindulged and their loss of control built, pulsing darkly within the Force. The crowd was growing larger, too, and the music pulsed faster. Patrons lined the tiers, some watching the holos, eyes flashing, mouths open. Qui-Gon watched one sleek and elegant woman in scarlet, the white blonde of her hair elegantly swept into a chignon coif, lick her lips as she watched blood trickle down off a shredded corpse, vanishing just before it touched her upturned face. 

The whole place thirsted, he realized-- the alcohol most of the clientele were drinking would not slake such a thirst. The combat shows had been replaced with an unending montage of gore; writhing bodies, flying spray of crimson droplets in the air, an obscene parody that, soundless, took on an aspect of lust-- screams of pain like screams of rapture, taut bodies convulsed in a grotesque parody of orgasm. 

Then the holos changed again. 

Qui-Gon's body stiffened as Obi-Wan coalesced in midair, striding forward. He wore a rough approximation of Jedi robes, but they did not sit well on him. They were ill-made, ill-fitting, and the man inside them bore little resemblance to the proper Jedi padawan Qui-Gon knew. He could hardly think to call this man Obi-Wan. The other hologram he had watched had been perhaps the first one taken; this was definitely not. He could not tell how much later this new one had been made, but much had changed while he was traveling to this place, long weeks wasted in the hyperspace transit. 

Obi-Wan's decorum had frayed badly and his serenity was gone. His hair was longer, falling about his face, spiked with grime, his pale body thinner, bones protruding against his white skin. He was smudged with dirt and oil and he moved like a predator, his hips leading, as he stepped forward and curled his fingers under the girl's chin. She was lying prone before him, and he snatched her to her knees. 

It had to be the drugs, Qui-Gon thought, feeling the distant sting of his nails slicing open his palms. It had to be. She'ba lifted her muzzle as she scented his blood, but he ignored her. He had no ability to rip himself away-- not from the vision of that slow, confident strut or the husky command in Obi-Wan's voice or the lazy authority of his bearing or the little savage half-smile his padawan couldn't possible be aware of as he snapped his fingers and the girl knelt, her hair puddling at his feet, to press her mouth to his boots. 

Qui-Gon caught a stir out of the corner of his eye; two men in the tiers seemed to be arguing over a woman. Irritated at the interruption, he took a half step forward and hesitated, arrested by the sight of Prince Tiran stepping up and Obi-Wan directing him to his knees with a faint turn of one hand, exactly as Qui-Gon had signaled the arranha in the courtyard only this afternoon. 

Obi-Wan laughed, long and exultant. 

A red haze of agony and rage swept Qui-Gon's vision, and the Force bisected his awareness between Obi-Wan and the club as the budding fight escalated. He surged forward with the cat before his conscious mind fully registered the knife flashing sideways in the crowd below. The force field fell and the arranha leaped, an extension of Qui-Gon's will. She struck with all the force of his rage driving her. Screams arose, clients scrambling away from the spray of blood and from the knife clattering free on the gleaming jet black of the floor. 

She'ba crunched the arm she held between her jaws, splintering bone as Qui-Gon landed lightly next to her. He fell to one knee and clamped a powerful hand over her victim's spurting brachial artery. That was one advantage of a lightsaber: cautery was far less messy and dangerous than this. 

She'ba growled and Qui-Gon glanced at her; she worried her trophy, pinning it with one paw. Qui-Gon realized suddenly that all of her claws were bloody and that the flow between his fingers was growing sluggish. 

He looked at the man beneath his hand for the first time; as he watched, crimson stains seeped through the tatters of his clothing and pooled on the floor. His head fell to one side, his throat gaping open. In the blink of an eye, the cat had simply shredded him. 

Qui-Gon looked up to the nearest bartender, his stillness a false oasis of calm inside the crowd, who were frantically trampling over one another, desperate to get away from the arranha. Words came to him, unbidden: "Call a cleaning crew." 

The mess was cleared away almost before Qui-Gon could direct She'ba back onto her couch. Settling, she licked her bloodstained pads placidly. Qui-Gon watched her, struggling to ignore the holo; his mouth tasted sour with adrenaline, and his stomach churned. He could not find even fragments of serenity within himself, not with the holo of Obi-Wan still continuing, not with his whole being battered by that sultry voice, the lascivious way his padawan's hands pressed open the girl's thighs, the practiced, eager way his hips shoved forward as he entered her, all just visible in the periphery of Qui-Gon's vision. 

The blood of the man Qui-Gon Jinn had just helped kill in anger still dripped off his hands. He could have stopped the fight without bloodshed, but he had let himself become distracted and the cat had been more violent than he anticipated. The man had made a very poor choice. 

Qui-Gon had killed many men in his lifetime. He tried to tell himself this one was little different. The man had drawn a knife; he was a threat to the peace and his death was just, though it had been dealt in anger. The dead man and all these other people were just an extension of Dramacore's evil, corrupted by it and feeding off it and feeding it. The Force whispered these things to Qui-Gon, twining sinuous around his heart, and his hands shook minutely, belief and rejection at war in his soul. 

If it had been Ruoto Millim, Qui-Gon knew he would have felt no guilt at all. 

He looked up at the image of Obi-Wan, whose head had tilted, his mouth fallen open, his braid trailing over one dark nipple, his hand a fist in the girl's hair as her body accepted him. This was the true violation-- the devastation of his padawan's innocence. In the face of it, nothing else mattered. Those responsible would pay. 

Wrath swirled around him, sank its claws into him, and feasted on him. 

Qui-Gon thumbed the button that released the repulsor-field and stalked out into the crowd, prowling through the club, the dark Force trailing after him. Wherever he passed a hush fell and the clients gave way. For the rest of that interminable night they gave him no further trouble. 

He was relieved when the huge window overlooking the city finally turned gray and the lights on the buildings winked out; he could hardly credit that the torturous evening was done. His clothes and hair were soaked with the stink of exotic smoke and his tabard was wringing with sweat under the heavy mail. 

Majnun came up in the lift and showed him where to take She'ba and how to feed her. When this was done, Qui-Gon was free to go to his place in the dormitory where the handlers stayed. Most of them were just rising, readying themselves for their day's work. They eyed Qui-Gon with curiosity but remained silent as he shouldered out of his damp tunic and leather breeches and went in to the showers. He let them have a look at the tattoo on his shoulder, overhearing a few sympathetic muttered comments about his decimated clan. 

"Welcome, _mo dheartháir,"_ one said, stepping slightly aside to pass him in a doorway, and he nodded and returned the greeting in kind. They shared Majnun's response to Qui-Gon: cautious but calm, they extended a tentative acceptance, his right as distant kin. It would do. 

He hung his towel and stepped under the fierce, hot needles of the shower. Finally, a moment to meditate and try to purge some of the unpleasantness that hung about him like the foul scent of the club. He imagined the hot water washing away the muddied, clouded energies, pictured the heat and the soaking comfort pushing them out and leaving serenity in their wake. But Obi-Wan intruded, Qui-Gon's memories of the holo fraying at his control, preventing him from finding serenity. How had they reduced his padawan to what he had seen? What damage had been done, what scars left that Qui-Gon would have to try to heal? 

The sense of another presence disturbed him and he opened his eyes, bending forward to let water work through his hair. Majnun stepped into the spray from the next showerhead. "You did well. We reviewed the security data and it's clear the man drew a knife. That was all the management needed to see." 

"Thank you." The words tasted sour. "If I'd been faster, I could have prevented the bloodshed." 

"I don't see how you could've reacted much faster. As it was, the two of you had him before he could even stick the knife into someone." Majnun cracked one blue eye to glance at Qui-Gon, squinting against the lather of soap. "Without the cat, only a Jedi could have moved fast enough to disarm him and keep him from knifing someone." 

The Force tickled at Qui-Gon; Majnun's aura felt purposeful, inquisitive. Qui-Gon reached out, trying to form a sense of what was different. Why had the man brought up the Jedi? "Even Jedi have limitations." Qui-Gon scrubbed a handful of soap through his hair, his words following where his instincts led. "They can be killed. It's just a matter of knowing how." 

Majnun chuckled. "And you have this knowledge?" He scrubbed at his chest casually, but every ounce of his attention was clearly focused on Qui-Gon's response. 

Qui-Gon stretched his neck, letting soapy water cascade behind his back, letting the Force lead him, his suspicions firming. "How else would I have obtained a Jedi weapon?" 

Majnun laughed, rueful. "I saw it, I must confess. I nearly skewered myself when I searched your gear." 

"The sword is dangerous," Qui-Gon agreed mildly. He pushed down his annoyance with himself; he should never have let the lightsaber out of his sight. He wouldn't have, if he'd had a choice. "In more ways than one. Authorities in the Republic immediately arrest any civilian who's caught with a Jedi blade; they know very well someone had to kill a Jedi to get it." 

"I've heard they turn Jedi killers over to the Jedi," Majnon agreed. "For 'justice.'" 

"For a swift execution." After a fair trial, though Majnun didn't need to hear that. Qui-Gon stepped out of the shower, slicking water out of his hair with both palms. "That's why I keep to the fringes of the Outer Rim instead of returning to the homeworld." 

Magnun shook water from his own hair, eyes sober as he looked at Qui-Gon. "You must forgive my invasion of your privacy, _mo dheartháir._ It's my job to oversee new hires, and for a Djinn to appear out of nowhere, one I do not know, one from an all-but-vanished clan...? It's unprecedented and warrants investigation." 

"No offense is taken." Qui-Gon toweled water out of his eyes. 

"The sword is a dangerous trophy. Why do you keep it?" Majnun asked. 

Qui-Gon looked at him levelly. In this, at least, he could be truthful. "On the day the Jedi's blade was last used, someone was taken from me: someone more important to me than my own life." The words hurt, darkly illuminating the pain in his soul; it was the first time he had confessed the strength of his love for Obi-Wan aloud. His voice fell, hoarse. "I've carried it ever since. One day, it will help me take my vengeance." He knew the sentiment was unworthy of a Jedi master, but it was true. 

Majnun nodded, hearing that truth; some of the suspicion finally left his aura. "Rest well, then, brother, in hope of the day." 

Qui-Gon nodded and went to his bed, pulling on leggings and rolling himself up in his coarse blanket. He badly needed to meditate, to come to terms with the night's events and to clear his mind and cleanse his soul. 

*****

Obi-Wan lay on his back, wakeful in spite of weariness, trying to catalog the state of his mind and body, trying to retain some vestiges of control. He had lost count of the days and of the bodies, of the mouths and hands and bent backs, the spread thighs, the soft breasts and the hard cocks, even the alien bodies, barely compatible with his own, forced to serve the director's inventive imagination. The latest adventure had involved a sljee, and Jata's creativity had been particularly loathsome-- or, as he would say, inspired. 

Obi-Wan squirmed uncomfortably; his mouth would be sore for a month, and as for his ass-- he forced the thought away and laughed bitterly at the grey ceiling of the cargo hold; he would never have thought it could be so unpleasant to have as much sex as anyone could ever possibly have wanted. Of course, not wanting it to begin with had a lot to do with that. Still worse was wanting it-- the aphrodisiacs they shot him up with ensured that whenever he touched or was touched, his body wanted it, writhed for it, reveled in it. His cock was always eager for more, and the artificially enforced lust always poured through him in a molten flood, all of it against his mind's will. 

He rolled to his side, up against Tiran, who was asleep, exhausted from his own part in the filthy business. The two of them had been judged the most desirable, and were the most common performers; they were also the weariest. Obi-Wan yawned and rubbed his grainy eyes. He could not meditate deeply without touching the Force, but the residue of the drugs in his system kept him from reaching even a light trance. He could not heal the raw skin on his body, the injection tracks in his arms, or the bone-deep weariness that dragged at him constantly now. 

All he could do was use the discipline he'd learned in his training to retreat as far inside himself as possible, to withdraw and let the drugs take over, shielding his mind and spirit while his body endured. Withdrawing allowed his body to respond eagerly to Jata's commands while he watched from a distance, shielded and numb and silently repelled by every act, every sensation. It had made things considerably easier when he learned to do that, leaving his body on autopilot, responding purely to external stimuli and commands rather than being hobbled by the reluctance of his mind. He wished the others could be granted that luxury. 

Worse than all the horrors of daily rape, Obi-Wan suffered due to his continued isolation from the Force. He wasn't sure how much more of that he could take; he had never gone so long without its soothing presence enfolding him and guiding him. In his dreams he wandered an endless desert, thirsting, always knowing that life-giving water awaited him just across the next dune, just past the next ridge-- but he could never find his way to it. Over and over he withered, stumbled, and died knowing that the water was there but never finding it. 

He reached out and drew Tiran close, taking comfort in his friend's warm skin. Tiran was tall and his shoulders broad, reminding Obi-Wan of Qui-Gon. 

Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan formed the name in silence, his lips trembling, his mouth caressing the syllables. If he shut his eyes, he could almost pretend Tiran was Qui-Gon and that Obi-Wan was wrapped around his master, drawing comfort from him. He needed it badly. The sight of Qui-Gon would be almost as welcome as the warm embrace of the Force. He nearly despaired of it now; Qui-Gon had not found him though it had been months, so long that his hair flopped over his eyes now, matted and unkempt. 

The videos must have been released, Obi-Wan knew. The Jedi would have seen them. His master would have seen them. Seen him. 

He felt bitter tears sting under his eyelids and held himself very still so as not to disturb Tiran as they slid over his cheeks and dripped onto the deck. His stomach rolled, threatening to sick up its meager contents. Qui-Gon kept his body pure, his soul and spirit above such sordid sexuality. He had already rejected Obi-Wan's feelings quite coolly. How much colder would he be after this? How would his master react when Obi-Wan asked to resume his place at Qui-Gon's side? How would Qui-Gon ever accept him after seeing all the things that Obi-Wan had done and the things that had been done to him? 

Qui-Gon Jinn had never wanted Obi-Wan's body, he would never want Obi-Wan's love, and now he might not even want him as an apprentice. Maybe the Council would agree. Maybe there would be no place for Obi-Wan to return to in the Jedi Order-- stained and shamed, perhaps he would be set aside. Maybe the Force itself would have no more use for him. 

Biting the inside of his cheek fiercely, Obi-Wan told himself those were only his fears speaking, groundless and exaggerated by pain. But he could not touch the Force, could not read its currents and taste his possible futures, and could not feel how he fit into the scheme of his own life anymore. The Jedi taught that Force users cut off from the Force eventually went mad. Now he understood why. 

He almost missed the faint shock of the transport sliding out of hyperspace, but the trembling of its descent through atmosphere was unmistakable. He looked around the crowded hold. Another planetfall meant another group of prisoners-- he had no idea where they were going to fit any more. And at some point, if no extra food was provided, people would begin to starve. 

Gida noticed the change in the ship's velocity too; she woke and blinked, rising from Taq's side to look for Obi-Wan. She stayed with Taq now whenever she could; he had retreated into himself, never speaking, rarely moving, never seeking out food. She brought him a measure of what she could grab for herself and made sure he ate it; she made sure he had a blanket when he slept and she kept the others from bothering him-- at least, outside of the studio. No one was safe inside it. Obi-Wan could see her growing weaker, but had not spoken. She was wise enough to know the consequences of her choice. 

Gida rose. "We're nearly full. They'll take us back and put us in the arena soon," she murmured to Obi-Wan. 

"I'm almost looking forward to it." Insanely enough, he was-- to get off this ship, out of the filthy press of strangers' bodies and away from the enforced orgies, to stretch out his muscles under the sun and fight? It sounded like heaven and it would give his master a better chance to find them. Tracking a ship through hyperspace was all but impossible. 

"It's not going to be an improvement." Her eyes were haunted. "We're the favorites, Obi-Wan-- you and Tiran and I. They wouldn't use us so hard if the audiences didn't pay to see us. They won't let us rest until we're dead." 

"We might survive. You survived." 

"And for what? To do it all again?" She stared at the deck. "I wish I hadn't." 

Obi-Wan could see her point. He reached for her and drew her up against his side; she sighed and relaxed against him. "You're stronger than the rest of us. You always give comfort." 

Obi-Wan barked a harsh laugh; he couldn't help himself. "I was just thinking how strong you are, to help Taq the way you do. All I do is hurt him." 

Gida nestled further under his arm. "You don't want to. That matters." She looked up at Obi-Wan, biting her lip, her eyes unusually vulnerable. They had been naked for so long that Obi-Wan hardly noticed flesh with his eyes anymore, but her body was very warm and her skin was soft. Her hair tickled his arm-- long, like his master's hair, a feather's brush against his skin. Again his heart cried for his master: Qui-Gon! The words all but choked him, trapped inside his clenched jaw, lost inside his Force-blind mind. 

He slid his arm closer around her, supporting her, and she sighed. "I won't live long in the arena, Obi-Wan. It was only luck that I survived the first time." Her hand moved over his, pressing it to her, the slightest downward pressure, and he did not need the Force to read what she was asking. 

Very well. If he could give comfort he would, and perhaps he could take some for himself in knowing he had eased her burden. 

Obi-Wan nestled his face into her hair and let his hand wander downward, moving very slowly, very carefully. He felt her sigh and shudder in response. This was little enough to ask. He had done so much to her in the studio-- painful and not, against both their wills... but never before at her choosing, and he had never been directed to pay attention to her pleasure. It was a relief to be capable of doing something-- anything-- useful. 

Her hips lifted against him and she made a small sound, her fingers closing around his arm. "That's nice," she breathed. "Feels good." 

He did it again very gently. Her flesh was raw and swollen, like his; she lifted at the slightest brush of his fingertips. 

"Tell me what it's like to be a Jedi?" Her voice was barely audible, the faintest whisper. 

He did not answer for a long moment, considering the unexpected question, wondering what in the world to tell her. "It's all I know. I don't know if it's 'like' anything." She was warming under his fingers slowly but surely. "It's all about discipline and control. I work constantly to control my body and my mind-- and to control the Force. But you can't force the Force." He and the other padawans used to laugh about that, laughter that released the frustration of struggling to learn the control of surrender. "To control the Force, you have to let it control you. I spend days on end sometimes sorting sand, learning patience. But I spend days flying, too-- literally, on days when I'm working on my piloting skills. I study the Jedi philosophy and our code of ethics. And I practice lightsaber katas with my master, learning the Forms of Combat. They're very beautiful and very satisfying." Just referring to Qui-Gon and to their life together wrapped his heart with bittersweet pain. "We're frequently assigned to missions to serve the Senate and sometimes they aren't very comfortable. Often we wind up fighting for our lives." 

"Tiran says he was the mission that landed you here." There was a hitch in her breath, and Obi-Wan's fingers moved easily now in the slickness of her body. 

"He is." Obi-Wan shifted her slightly so that he could see her face. She was beautiful, even with her scars-- perhaps partly because of them. 

"Are the Jedi--" she gasped softly as his fingers re-settled. "--like a family? Or is it like being at a school where everyone looks out for themselves and the teachers couldn't care less how you do?" 

"That doesn't sound like a very good school." Obi-Wan pondered the question. "I have friends and companions. The Jedi look out for one another." It was true, but there was, somehow, very little real intimacy about it now that he thought about it. The most intimate relationship he had.... "My master and I... I suppose we're family. Of a sort." Of the sort that, when Obi-Wan passed his trials, could abruptly cease to be connected and never be revisited, if that was what either of them wanted. Assuming he would ever take his trials now, or ever have the right to call himself Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan again. 

She shifted to look at him, and he tried to explain. "My master and I live together and travel together. He teaches me and corrects me. He sees to my well-being and I do the same for him. We look out for each other on missions as I learn the crafts of our calling... he teaches by example, showing me the art of being a Jedi Knight. I'm his padawan. It's almost like being his son. I'm his student, his responsibility-- his creation, ultimately his gift to the future of the Jedi." He could not keep the raggedness from his voice. 

"You must love each other very much," she said softly. 

"Jedi do not love." It was a lie, he knew-- or perhaps he was not a Jedi, and never had been. The words echoed hopelessly in the hollow pit that had become his soul. 

She was quiet for a long time. Then, "I'm sorry." 

Obi-Wan kissed her cheek in silent answer and stroked her without further speech, patient and gentle, until her body shuddered and arched against him. Her nails dug at his wrist; then he eased her down to lie between himself and Tiran and held her until she slept. 

The shaking of the ship moving through atmosphere eventually reduced as they decelerated, and finally the floor shuddered beneath him as they touched down. It sent a ripple of unease through the group, but most settled back to sleep, believing it would take a few hours before the first new prisoners arrived. 

This time they were mistaken. The doors opened immediately and guards filed in, holding shock-lances, poking the sluggish sleepers awake. 

"Get up, you lazy maggots." Bilam led the guards, kicking and jabbing with his shock-lance. "Up and out!" 

Obi-Wan surged up rapidly, helping Gida and Tiran avoid the shock-lances. He could see natural light filtering faintly through the door, and he pressed forward ahead of the others, trailing his friends behind him. They spilled out of the craft unchecked to find themselves standing on a wide shelf of stone. A blue-white sun shone overhead, small and cold; the air battered against Obi-Wan's skin and the stone leached warmth out of his feet. The wind howled through the valley, lifting Obi-Wan's hair and making his skin pebble with chillflesh. 

This must be the arena. Great care and expense had been taken to enhance a natural valley that formed a wide oval between mountain peaks; seats and boxes had been carved into the stone flanks of the peaks that sloped down toward the plateau on which they stood. The floor had been leveled with the same stone-- the masonry probably worked from the very stuff carved out to make the seating. Anti-grav landing platforms had been erected around the peaks that loomed above the tiers of seats, partly sheltering the area; huge cascades of snowmelt from the mountains foamed and fell at irregular intervals around the circle, channeled between shoulders of worked stone that glittered in the sun, coated with gleaming ice from the spray. The cataracts roared into basins situated on the lowest level of the seating area, from which the falling water was presumably piped out deep below the battle surface. The entire place was empty except for them and their transport. Obi-Wan glanced up, tracking a rumble that did not match the engines of the transport, and saw an avalanche tumbling down the shoulder of a faraway peak, probably disturbed by the vibrations of their landing. 

Nine snow-capped peaks stretched into the sky around the battle arena, their shoulders harsh and forbidding. There was no sign of vegetation and the oxygen tasted thin, his lungs laboring for breath, so Obi-Wan guessed they were well above the tree-line. Except for huge, gleaming coils of razor wire wrapped thickly about the perimeter of the battle floor, there was no apparent fence or boundary; Obi-wan guessed any fighter who managed to escape would swiftly die of exposure on the mountainside. 

"Home again." Gida muttered, her eyes shadowed. "We'd better get inside before we freeze." She reached out for Taq, who had trailed them at a distance, and nodded toward a tunnel located at one of the narrow ends of the oval. The guards emerged from the transport behind the last of their prisoners and chivvied the group toward it. 

Obi-Wan obeyed, putting his body between his friends and the shock-lances as often as he could. He regretted stepping inside the cold stone channel and losing the light of the sun, but it was warmer without the bitter bite of the mountain wind. 

The facility that awaited was spacious and surprisingly comfortable, at least compared to the transport. There were individual beds with blankets, a real sanitation facility with flush plumbing and shower heads set in the wall over drains spaced evenly around the stone floor, and a seating area where they could assemble to be fed on tables. 

"We'll be watched every moment," Gida said quietly. "They won't let anyone try to self-injure." She sat down on a bed near the tunnel and the others took up the cots nearest to hers. They were carved straight into the stone walls, recessed alcoves in various shapes and sizes, made to accommodate a variety of humanoid and non-humanoid bodies, packed so closely together that there was only barely room to sit up on the edge of each mattress. "There's a medical facility too, but it's next to the staff area. That area is smaller, but it's much nicer." She lay down on her chosen bed, the second one up, and Taq slipped into the one below, leaving the two uppermost for Obi-Wan and Tiran. 

"In a day, maybe two, the tournaments will start," she explained. "We'd better get food and sleep while we still can." 

They lay down, but Obi-Wan still could not sleep. He had half-expected Qui-Gon to sweep down when they finally made planetfall, swooping in like an avenging angel, but there was still no sign of the man. He knew it was irrational, but he could not deny his dismay. 

He would have to be alert; there were bound to be more escape opportunities now, if only he could find a way to get them through the mountains and down into the valleys where they wouldn't freeze. His master taught there were always opportunities provided by the Force for those who remained patient. 

The next day the tournament staging began. In groups of ten and twenty the prisoners were outfitted in rough, ill-fitting clothes and herded up to the arena, where they drilled against a variety of remotes. Observers and droid sentinels stood by, rating their skills, and Obi-Wan realized a bracket was being drawn up with great care. There would be one large fight to cull the ranks, then the combats would be optimized to give the audience time to build its preferences for one fighter or the other and to let suspense build before the gladiators were ever issued weapons. It wouldn't do to squander the best fighters and let them fall out of the ranks early. 

Obi-Wan wasn't sure if he would qualify as one of the best or not; without the Force his fighting skills were severely reduced. The group assembled around him was daunting, to say the least-- he was the only full human in the group. Most of the fighters in his group made him look very small, and they were taken from races with quick reflexes, strong bodies, and fierce warrior cultures. They eyed him warily-- the tale of the captive Jedi had spread rapidly among the prisoners, and he knew he was widely feared. 

There were many in his group who had not been on Obi-Wan's transport. Throughout the day new ships arrived, each disgorging its complement of warriors into different areas of the arena. 

Obi-Wan stood still amidst the chaos, glad of his new boots and the rough clothes that kept the cruel wind off his skin. He reached for serenity and found a semblance of it, enough to seem confident and thus encourage the fears of the fighters who surrounded him. He would need every advantage he could cultivate if he were to survive long enough for Qui-Gon to find him. There was little he could do for Tiran, Gida, or Taq now-- they were all in different groups and would be reunited only after the long day was done. 

Obi-Wan was singled out next and stepped up to take his turn dodging bolts from a training remote. Without the Force, this was going to be a challenge, but he had been performing this exercise ever since he was old enough to walk. Setting his jaw, he bounced on the balls of his feet and prepared to move. 

*****

Hours later, aching in every bone, bruised and burned in delicate places and limping on a half-turned ankle, he returned to his bunk and found the others already waiting, similarly battered. Taq sported a black eye in addition to his wounds; he was sitting curled with Gida in her bunk and his mouth pinched when he saw Obi-Wan was not unscarred. Obi-Wan couldn't tell if the expression reflected triumph or disappointment. 

"I could almost go for some holo filming instead of what we did today." Tiran groaned, flat on his back in his bunk with one arm over his eyes. 

"Don't say that," Obi-Wan requested earnestly, hoisting himself up to his bunk. The muscle soreness in his body actually felt good; he knew it was a sign of healthy exercise. He had performed well enough when measured against sentient opponents, but not against the remotes, which were much faster and didn't give off subtle body signals to let him know how they would move next. "We should shower." He felt as though he had rolled in offal; the months spent shipboard had been bad enough, but after a day spent sweating in his clothes he couldn't bear himself. 

They went in as a group, drawing security from the companionship. Obi-Wan nearly whimpered when warm water struck his body and poured through his grimy, filthy hair. He lathered soap into his hair with almost frantic relief and scrubbed himself hard, the bath cloth peeling away layers of dirt and dead skin. 

"So good." Tiran moaned, leaning into the spray with his eyes squeezed shut. 

Obi-Wan could sympathize; he turned his own shoulders into the spray, wincing when one of the burns from a remote's blaster bolt fell under the powerful jet of water. He shifted away from the pain and let the hot water melt the tension out of his abused muscles. The group lingered in the showers until they slumped where they stood, exhaustion and relaxation beginning to overwhelm their tired bodies. 

There was no way to shave, but combs stood waiting in a jar of disinfectant near the entry next to a few racks of threadbare towels, and Obi-Wan ran one through his wet, tangled hair. He slowly loosened his padawan braid, working methodically-- the untended braid had matted, and it took a great deal of patient combing to free the long strands and untangle them from the beads. He put the tiny ornaments in his mouth for safekeeping, then dried and re-braided the hair as best he could-- this symbol of his apprenticeship was all he could cling to until Qui-Gon came for him. 

He had to believe Qui-Gon would come. 

*****

The combat cycle would start soon. Qui-Gon took the words as a mantra, reciting them quietly inside his head as he led She'ba around the perimeter of the club. She was docile enough tonight, but her presence worked wonders to deter the less decorous clients. 

He had not been forced to kill since the first night-- he had talked drunken beings out of killing, broken an assortment of limbs, and threatened to call the cat, but never since the first night had he let a situation escalate so far. 

It helped him remain sane if he made his patrols whenever Obi-Wan's holograms were featured, which meant he got plenty of exercise. Obi-Wan was popular among the patrons, and sometimes holos of him were run three or more times in a night. Qui-Gon stalked the tiers, knowing that the patrons who looked into his helmet saw the bitter set of his jaw and the simmering flame in his eyes and were afraid of him nearly as much as they feared the arranha he controlled. Obi-Wan's voice cried out in passion above his head, and Qui-Gon ignored it, stony, shoving a passed-out drunken lordling aside roughly with his boot to clear the stair. The young man's head thumped hard against the leg of a chair, but Qui-Gon was indifferent. His temper had been on edge for so long he had nearly forgotten what serenity felt like. 

There was a flicker in the Force tonight, as if something important were present but masked; it made him increasingly uneasy. He had already prowled the club twice, seeking it, when his eyes fixed on a child sitting placidly at a table near the entrance. Feeling his gaze, the boy glanced up at him, eyes clear and calm. 

It was Walek, missing his braid and wearing civilian clothes, but his face was unmistakable. 

That must be Misi with him, concealed effectively within an elaborate hairdo and a dress displaying cleavage to her navel, ensuring that would be all most men saw of her, a filmy cowl drawn over her face just to be certain, her Force aura skillfully damped. But Walek was still young, unskilled in subterfuge. Even as he watched them Qui-Gon saw Misi nudge her padawan, who obediently lowered his face, but the damage was already done. 

Qui-Gon stroked She'ba's ear and touched the jeweled collar with his mind. She loped away gracefully to her couch and he went to the door, standing behind the table, unable not to look out across the pit to the place in the air where Obi-Wan hung projected. Qui-Gon hissed with fury in spite of himself; tonight, his padawan was sprawled across the squat body of a sljee, squirming helplessly, the sljee's thick, sinuous tentacles probing his every orifice, forcing their way into his mouth and his ass, curling and twining around his jutting cock. Qui-Gon could hear the pain and the lust in Obi-Wan's voice as he moaned around the tentacle in his mouth, his cries growing more shrill and desperate as the thing forced itself deeper and deeper into him. 

"That's no fit sight for a child!" Qui-Gon growled, jerking his head toward the holo, his voice ripping harshly at his throat, which felt as raw and flayed as his mind. 

She turned her head coolly to survey Qui-Gon. "You have no say in who comes here, Djinn." Her eyes judged him, and her voice entered his mind, though her lips were still. _You ignored their transmissions, so the Council has declared you rogue. It would be correct to arrest you now._

_"Go hifreann leat, cailleach!"_ Qui-Gon spat, and reached instinctively for the cat's mind. Once more confined behind the repulsor-field, She'ba rose in a powerful surge and roared, pacing back and forth along the front of the cage, her green eyes blazing. He let his thumb rest on the field's trigger button, scowling his threat at Misi and meaning every bit of it. Half the club was staring now, round-eyed, at them instead of at Obi-Wan, sparing occasional nervous glances for the increasingly agitated arranha. Qui-Gon held Misi's gaze, unwavering. 

Misi might not have been able to translate the oath word for word, but she understood him well enough. _Look at yourself._ Ice dripped from her aura. _What would Obi-Wan say?_

 _He would say "Help me,"_ Qui-Gon answered her instantly, his point punctuated by an agonized whimper from the hologram. _And I will not be hindered in that. Do not force my hand._

Her eyes softened, very slightly, from absolute zero to merely glacial. _Transports carrying arena fodder have been landing all week in the high peaks of the mountains. I believe he is there._

 _The games are to begin in two days,_ Qui-Gon responded. _I have arranged for my cover. I will see to his rescue. Afterward you can arrest me and drag me back to the Council. Not before._

"If you don't want to debate your rights with the arranha, you'll take the boy," he snarled, "And get out." He stood away from the door and made a pointedly elegant gesture in its direction. "Now." 

_Agreed._ "Come, little one," she said loudly, looking aside from Qui-Gon's eyes. "We aren't wanted here." She sailed out, regal, with Walek in tow, and Qui-Gon returned to the cage to soothe the agitated cat. 

Two more days. 

When morning dawned Qui-Gon went down to the dormitories, but he did not lie down after showering. Instead he congregated in the yard with the rest of the Djinn. Excitement ran high; the men chattered together as they walked among the cages anticipating the battle. Some were already planning their wagers. Qui-Gon listened to their inside information without appearing to listen, scrubbing cages and currying gleaming pelts alongside them, exchanging greetings with particular friends. Hard to imagine he'd been here for only two months awaiting the combat season-- it felt like decades of impatience and hiding, centuries of anguish in the Club as he tried not to hear the holos, tried not to watch them. 

Soon only a token guard would be left here; the others would go to the arena to police the contests. Unfortunately, Qui-Gon had no seniority. Nearly every evening he and She'ba guarded the club. If he wasn't careful he'd be left behind here while the others went. That was unacceptable, but perhaps there was a way.... 

Qui-Gon approached a cage where a huge young male lay, easily a hundred kilos heavier than its nearest competitor, its slitted eyes glowering out at the activity that surrounded its cage. The keepers were all giving the cage a wide berth; it had not yet been a moon cycle since Maj'lis had broken control and savaged his most recent keeper. None had yet volunteered to try to replace the dead man. 

"'Ware, _mo dheartháir."_ One of his brothers warned him. "Don't go too close to that one." 

"How else am I to tame him?" Qui-Gon asked reasonably, and the red-haired man made a soft chuff of wry amusement. 

_"Feisigh do thoin fein,_ then," he said, amiably enough. "Just don't say nobody warned you." A handful of the brothers laughed, listening. 

Qui-Gon laughed with them, realizing the byplay had caught Majnun's attention. "He's a fine lad and he'll be needed in the Chase." 

"You just want the bonus for handling the arranha who catches the best runner." 

"Perhaps I do." Qui-Gon let a smile curve one corner of his mouth. 

"If you want to work with Maj'lis, we'll have to clear the courtyard." Majnun whistled, and men began to file out, some of them pausing to turn winches that rolled the arranha cages back into their niches in the walls. "Be careful, Ki-Gün. I'd just as soon not bury you tomorrow." 

Qui-Gon wished briefly for his lightsaber, then dismissed the thought and took up a rattan training goad from the rack on the wall. He tested its blunt point and the flex of its long fibrous handle. It bent in his hands, springing back quickly-- it seemed in good repair. Such a thing would not be helpful if Maj'lis determined to kill him; they were intended for tapping a cat to direct it or gain its attention, not for defense. 

"Open the cage," he called when all the men had retreated behind the iron portcullis that locked the courtyard entry, and the repulsor-field fell with a brief sputter. 

Maj'lis easily lifted himself, stalking forward with bent legs, the tip of his tail twitching, and Qui-Gon centered himself carefully in the Force, reaching for the cat's collar. That was easy enough, but the mind behind it was not. Seething with rage, that mind flared bright with hate, the focus of its murderous rage bent on Qui-Gon. Maj'lis remembered freedom, remembered being the alpha male and mating the females in his pride, running wild and free, and the cat knew this irritating creature in front of him, the one with the pathetic goad, had taken his freedom and pent him here. 

Qui-Gon dodged faster than thought and felt the arranha's claws rip the air a finger's breadth from his shoulder. He was already rolling in the dust, the Force whispering to him, revealing where the next leap would land. When it did, he wasn't there. 

A clawed paw slammed down where he had been a fraction of a second later and another jarred the ground less than a hand from his ear the merest fraction of an instant after that. The cat lunged forward, thinking it had him, but its jaws only caught in the tail of Qui-Gon's shirt, ripping it. He was already on his feet, dodging lightly away, the cat in hot pursuit, raking air with razored claws, yowling its frustration. 

Qui-Gon danced, falling into the Force, millimeters ahead of the razor-sharp claws and dripping fangs. He darted under the beast's belly, avoiding the flailing back legs and gained a few seconds as Maj'lis reversed, legs churning. He used the time to reach out with his mind, sliding through the enhancing gem and calling to Maj'lis. 

_Calm,_ he sent the cat, but its mind was ablaze and it brushed him off easily. He dodged again, backpedaling, and the goad deflected the cat just enough to save him from spilling his intestines all over the ground. He felt the razor-sear of pain as the very tip of one claw tore through his shirt, found skin, and drew blood. He couldn't keep this up indefinitely. 

The cat turned its head, tracking him, muscles bunching for a spring. Qui-Gon reached out again, looking for a weakness, a way in. _Freedom._

The cat paused, tail lashing. It stepped forward and Qui-Gon circled, keeping it moving, preventing it from setting its haunches to spring. 

_I can give you back your freedom._ He sent an image of the cat running wild, back in charge of a pride, away from civilization and sentients. 

Maj'lis roared; his claws scraped deep furrows in the masonry. He extended his long neck, sniffing toward Qui-Gon as if to smell a lie. 

_Help me and I will help you, my friend._ Qui-Gon strengthened the projection, drawing as much Force as he could hold, reinforcing the certainty of his words and the truth of his vision. 

Maj'lis growled again but did not spring; he rose and paced around Qui-Gon, eyes blazing. Qui-Gon turned slowly, not letting the cat work its way behind him. 

_Freedom... or the cage. You must choose._ Qui-Gon let the goad fall, kicking it away, his gaze locked with the cat's. The jeweled collar pulsed, flashing bright with the strength of the Force that flowed between them. Qui-Gon held out his hand, palm extended and open, and focused his thoughts, directing them through the conduit of the gesture, sending the cat an image of their quarry. _Help me find him, and on my honor, I will free you._

Maj'lis drew its lips back, baring fangs as long as Qui-Gon's forearm, curious in spite of itself. The cat had no concept of honor, but Qui-Gon had piqued its interest. Its curiosity piqued, the cat's resistance snapped. Qui-Gon felt his victory as his will settled into the arranha's mind, but he did not press his luck. After a long moment the cat turned its head and the tension simply flowed out of it. It sat down on the stones and began to lick one pad, clearly considering the conflict at an end. 

_"Tá tú glan as do mheabhair!"_ Majnun approached cautiously, shaking his head with disbelief. "Are you sure you aren't a Jedi?" 

Qui-Gon chuffed a wry laugh. "I can assure you I'm not." Not anymore. 

"If you're serious about wanting money you should join the Chase yourself, I think." Majnun shook his head. "Place a wager on yourself to win. I haven't seen anyone beat the cats yet, but after that? I almost think you could." He laughed and cuffed Qui-Gon lightly, knocking a cloud of dust from his sleeve. 

"Get him back in his cage and prepare yourself to move to the arena." Majnun retrieved the goad and handed it back to Qui-Gon. "You've just earned a promotion." 

Qui-Gon obeyed.

**********************************

GLOSSARY

Arilan: Some group of people somewhere near the Galactic Core who own a hell of a lot of holotransmission emitters. 

Arranhar: "To claw" in Portuguese (Verb form used as plural noun here because it's cool-sounding). The name of the clawed species that are Dramacore's preferred pursuit predators. Singular: Arranha. I am told this also means "skyscraper" in colloquial Portuguese. So much for the language resource I used to find out its meaning! 

Bant: Master Tahl's padawan learner, Obi-Wan's best friend. 

Bilam: Male employee of Dramacore. Fat, bald, and cruel, but not too smart. Gets off on physical torture of prisoners. Wears filthy grey coverall. Not the guy you wanna be if you dislike choking. 

Birin: Generic Jedi Knight responding to Qui-Gon's call for backup on Xinune. 

Cai: Partner to Knight Birin. Generic helpful backup Jedi and faceless pawn in the horrible machinations of Lilith Sedai. 

Cido: Male prisoner of Dramacore. Also generic. 

_Damnú ort, streachailt leathair Jedi striapach!:_ Damn you, fucking (literally, 'leather stretching') Jedi whore! 

Delta 6: Obi-Wan's single-man starfighter at the time of this fic, equipped with a hyperspace ring for long-distance travel. See Wookieepedia. 

Draigon: A creature referenced in the Jedi Apprentice YA book series, these are probably pretty much just small dragons. Obi-Wan fought them as a very young man before Qui-Gon took him as his padawan. 

Dramacore: Holovid company, notorious for reality broadcasts of to-the-death gladiatorial combat and hard-core pornography. Filthy rich. Kidnaps people to make them stars. Doesn't always pay out to stars/prisoners as promised if they win. 

_Feisigh do thoin fein:_ Fuck your own ass. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Gida: Female prisoner of Dramacore, has survived one arena combat. Scarred and cynical, the most experienced of the prisoners. I based her on Zooey Deschanel, but you don't have to think of her that way if you don't like. 

_Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat:_ May the cat eat you and the devil eat the cat. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

_Go hifreann leat, cailleach:_ Go to hell, you old witch. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Jata: Male Dramacore employee, thin with white, tightly-curled hair. Clever bastard who gets up to psychological games with prisoners. You don't wanna be him, either. 

Jom: Male lieutenant under Captain Kalare in King Tabare's personal guard force. 

Kalari: Female captain of King Tabare's personal guard force. 

_Ki-Gün Djinn is ainm dom:_ My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). Wow, this is a bad one; any linguist worth a damn would beat me half to death for combining fake Arabic names with words from Irish Gaelic and blaming it all on one culture. If you wanted to go through the same mental gymnastics and web inquiries I did, you'd discover this phrase means something very like "Qui-Gon Jinn is the name on me." The only justification for the Djinn using Irish Gaelic as their native language is, of course, Liam Neeson's irrepressible Irish brogue, which by default has to be the faint remnant of Qui-Gon's first language (blame George for hiring an Irishman who is constitutionally incapable of saying 'anything' instead of 'ennathin,' and then telling him he has to try to sound American). 

Maj'lis: A particularly dominant young male arranha, difficult to control. Has killed keepers. 

Majnun Djinn: One of the reclusive Djinn, an employee of Dramacore who works as chief handler for the arranhar. Majnun is Arabic for "Familiar spirit," which is, simply enough, a synonym for "Djinn." I am also told that this research was inadequate, and that Majnun means crazy/obsessive/etc. But I already had it in place, so I'm stuck with it. The only religious or political significance I intend by using "Djinn" is a vague mythological association with wizards and giants-- and George already did that anyway when he named Qui-Gon. I based Majnun on a friend of mine who has about the right body type, but who would probably kill me with his bare hands for me cursing him with long hair. And he'd have EVERY right to. Sorry, A. B. M.! 

Mirani: Female prisoner of Dramacore. 

Misi Raksen: A Jedi watchman, specializing in the culture, lore, and situations of the sector where Xinune is located. Uses a yellow lightsaber. 

_Mo Athair:_ my father. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

_Mo dheartháir:_ my brother. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

Nosaurian: See Nosaurian on Wookieepedia. 

Ruoto Millim: Male Dramacore employee. High level, oily, sleazebucket. Think a combination of Eddie Izzard in Velvet Goldmine and Richard Dawson in The Running Man. 

She'ba: A female arranha, old enough that she is extremely docile and agreeable by comparison to the others, but still extremely deadly and easily angered. 

Sljee: The only sentient being I could find on Wookieepedia that was bountifully equipped with the fully articulated tentacles I required for executing Jata's nefarious script. See on Wookieepedia. 

Slave minder: A small transmitter implanted in a slave, constantly transmitting the slave's location to its owner's comm console. They are rigged to explode upon removal, remote trigger, or in response to tampering, so that slaves can't cut them out and run away. 

So'lis: Majnun Djinn's preferred partner arranha. Male, very quick and agile. 

Stereme: City in which Dramacore has a facility for filming and supporting chase programs. Chases in which the target survives end here. 

_Tá tú glan as do mheabhair:_ You are completely out of your mind. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Tabare: King who calls for Jedi assistance with finding his missing son. 

Tahl: Jedi Master, Loremaster, Qui-Gon's long-time romantic interest, though they remained celibate. Blinded during her last mission as a Jedi Guardian and rescued by Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. I based her on Jada Pinkett Smith, but who knows what George thinks? 

Takat: City in which King Tabare's palace is located; government seat of his realm. 

Taq: Male prisoner of Dramacore, seems unusually perceptive and might have a small amount of Force sensitivity. Not very resilient. Based on a young Cary Elwes. 

Tiran: Prince; Tabare's son, kidnapped by Dramacore. Obi-Wan's old friend and lover. Based on a young Christian Bale. Mmmmm, pretty. 

_Titim gan éirí ort:_ May you fall without rising. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Walek: 10-year-old padawan learner to Master Misi Raksen (age as of this segment of the story). 

Xinune: Planet on which Tabare is King; Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are sent there to investigate Prince Tiran's disappearance.


	3. The Arena

Loading and unloading the beasts required Qui-Gon to tranquilize Maj'lis, which he accomplished by mixing a soporific in the animal's morning meat. He felt guilty about drugging the cat, but afterward he was relieved he had. The move was pure chaos, a frantic interlude of cranes and hoverlifts and minor collisions combined with the shuddering of liftoff and the turbulence of mountain flying. It left the doped cats on edge, yowling with miserable confusion in the hold as the overloaded craft climbed sluggishly up the slopes of the mountains. 

The arena was stunning. The cargo craft approached the mountains at dawn, and the rising sun cast stark shadows from the peaks into the bowl where the combat would occur. Snowfields and glaciers glittered in sparkling splendor beneath the craft as it circled, gradually gaining altitude along the steep mountain flanks. Qui-Gon knew they would make an effective fence for the place. 

He reached automatically for calm but it eluded him, as it had so often of late. Anticipating Obi-Wan's presence left his heart in his throat; he felt eager for battle in a way no Jedi should. It clouded his Force awareness and colored his actions. He sighed. It was hard to remember he was not considered a Jedi anymore; being Jedi was at the very core of him, and he had never known anything else. He stiffened his spine and set his worries about the Council aside. He still had enough self-discipline to know he must leave that problem for the future. 

Unloading posed as many problems as loading, and by the time Qui-Gon had installed Maj'lis in his niche just below the arena floor, eaten a hasty meal, and set up his own spot in the dormitory, the setting sun had left the arena in shadow. He hardly had time to think of Obi-Wan; two of the cats had broken loose and fought, and helping subdue them and treat their injuries occupied much of his afternoon. 

The night wind held needles of ice, crystals driven down from the low skim of clouds that hovered around the shoulders of the peaks. A crescent of greenish moon lit up the scudding clouds and turned the pale streaks in the stone to pearl. Already, two transports were docked on the landing platforms, waiting for morning to disgorge their wealthy clientele into the stands. 

The transports looked serene, but inside they were far from quiet. Applying just a little concentration, Qui-Gon could hear the minds aboard the transport. They were convivial, drinking and conversing and watching more holos-- these seemed to be training videos, tests of the gladiators' potential. Betting was already underway based on this small sample of the fighters' abilities. 

He shook the snow from his beard and wrapped his cloak around himself tightly; he began to walk, prowling around the circumference of the oval. He extended his senses, drawing on the wild calm of the wintry night; the chill, indifferent grandeur of the peaks soothed him. His padawan was cut off from the Force, but this near, Qui-Gon might find him anyway. The wall of the arena was pierced by tunnels at regular intervals, each barred with heavy duranium doors, leading down to living areas where the fighters were housed. Behind each one lay countless dozens of minds, humanoid and alien, Force-sensitive and mind-blind in varying degrees. He sifted and sorted, his mind extended to his limits, the hum of sentient energy buzzing past him and through him. Then the next and the next. He prowled on, oblivious to the cold, until he reached the deepest part of the oval and reached out, finding a vaguely familiar presence waiting for him there. 

Tiran! Not Obi-Wan, but Prince Tiran, wakeful but fading toward sleep-- and a small knot of minds next to him, connected to him. One was badly fractured, two sleeping and composed. Qui-Gon trembled, but not from the cold, pressing his body against the duranium portal as if the few millimeters of closeness could extend the reach of his thoughts. One was the girl, he thought; the other.... yes. Yes. It had to be Obi-Wan, the living flame of him reduced to its lowest ebb, his sleep all but dreamless, unable to feel Qui-Gon calling to him through the dead silence, the insulating emptiness where the Force had been silenced within his spirit. 

Qui-Gon's fingers hooked into the support braces on the door and he extended his mind again, cradling Obi-Wan's faint presence, seeking all the information he could. His padawan's body was weary, chafed and worn but intact. He was thin, undernourished, and had lost muscle. He had traces of numerous drugs in his system. More than traces, if Qui-Gon wanted to be honest. He had several recent minor wounds-- bolts from training remotes, perhaps, inflicted as he was assessed for battle readiness. But he was there. 

Qui-Gon could go, retrieve his lightsaber, and cut his way through the door. He thought he could reach Obi-Wan without much trouble, but the Force whispered against it. Obi-Wan's Delta Six had a beckon-call, but it was keyed to Obi-Wan's Force-signature, and he'd been unable to reset it by himself. Worse, Obi-Wan couldn't call it either, not without the Force. They would have nowhere to run but the killing cold of the mountain shoulders, the glaciers and the ice fields, the snow and the avalanches. He might make it down alive if they weren't caught, but not Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon could sense the tiny capsule implanted inside his padawan's body. A wicked defense mechanism had been built into it. He wouldn't like to try to remove that without expert assistance; it would explode immediately when exposed to atmosphere-- or when triggered remotely. 

"Obi-Wan," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He must trust in the Force and wait for the proper opportunity to present itself. He had to believe his padawan could endure, could survive the arena until it came. 

Qui-Gon drew back from the door at last, reluctant-- but the temperature was dropping and he was already near frostbite, the metal leaching heat out of his unprotected hands and face. "I will come for you, pada-- Obi-Wan," he whispered. "Endure a little longer and trust in the Force. Trust in me." 

Still, each step away from Obi-Wan felt a little heavier. Qui-Gon was unable to sleep when he finally found his bunk, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts reaching out over and over and over toward that faint single spark, his lightsaber cool and heavy under his palm. The next morning he was to take Maj'lis and patrol the perimeter to prevent any of the combatants from escaping the razor wire and causing a commotion among the audience. He hoped he might be able to arrange to patrol Obi-Wan's quadrant of the arena. 

When the low alarm chime resounded, waking the Djinn handlers for their morning duties, Qui-Gon was still half-awake, still cradled protectively around his awareness of Obi-Wan. The boy was dreaming, formless and troubled, reliving images of the degradation he'd been forced to endure. Qui-Gon had been unable to help him escape the dreams, and he had to clamp down on his temper, forcing himself to reply equably to the customary joking and teasing among his Djinn brothers. Majnun was working on a datapad and Qui-Gon approached him, preparing a calculated risk. 

"I would like to work the south quadrant," Qui-Gon requested. "Maj'lis is difficult; I will need the advantage of not staring into the sun for most of the day." 

"I have you in the northeast," Majnun responded. "We have Hutt seated there; they're troublesome and I need your crowd control skills in that spot. The cat's size will be needed, too, if there's trouble in the stands." 

"It would be better to station me in the south quadrant." Qui-Gon moved his hand subtly so that it would not be seen, and pressed with his mind; Majnun frowned at him. 

"No, I don't agree." His brow furrowed. "We don't anticipate any trouble there. You'll go where you're told, Ki-Gün." 

Qui-Gon sighed; the Temple records said mental domination had never been particularly effective against the Djinn, and he himself had always been adept at resisting it. 

"Very well," he accepted, and returned to his bunk to dress. His uniform had changed from the restrained club attire to an ostentatious outfit that was clearly intended to draw the eye and impress the ignorant. It featured a tall winged helmet with almond-shaped eye slits, a hooked raptor's beak, and heavy cheek and chin-guards, with an elaborate eagle design etched into the metal and two luxuriant black-and-white plumes attached as crests. The helmet matched a golden breastplate, also filigreed with eagles and heavily embossed to indicate an impressive humanoid musculature. A thick burgundy cloak with gold lining and a golden Dramacore logo embroidered on the back attached to the breastplate with straps and clips. He had also been issued a black thermal bodysuit and tabard with a black leather belt, tall black leather boots, and supple black gauntlet gloves. A ceremonial handler's goad, lightweight black metal with golden accents, completed the ensemble and clipped to a loop on his belt. The thing was entirely impractical, too heavy, and barely functional for its ostensible purpose. Even the boots were new and creaked when he walked; he knew they would chafe his feet. 

He sighed and put it all on anyway; if he encountered anyone he knew, it would be an effective camouflage. At least it was warm. 

Qui-Gon tucked his lightsaber inside the bodysuit, securing it behind his belt, and went out to fetch Maj'lis from his cage. 

The arranha seemed to sense the special occasion, and was already pacing in his cage, his green eyes alert, his ears pinned back sleekly against his huge head. Qui-Gon checked the collar and gem, touched the beast's mind, and ensured that all was in readiness. His heart was pounding hard inside his chest in spite of his outward calm. His sense of his pada-- of Obi-Wan was faint, but Obi-wan's mind was alert, and he knew Obi-Wan was being readied for combat. 

Qui-Gon strode out onto the ledge and looked into the empty arena beyond the sinuous coils of razor-wire. Other handlers were taking their places. He squinted against the sun, gazing across the shallow bowl to the southern quadrant, where one of his brothers was already in place, a hand on his arranha. The doors were still shut; the fighters would not be introduced until the crowds were seated. 

The landing platforms hummed with activity, the heavy thump and drone of atmospheric engines rumbling through the mountains as transports docked and disgorged their passengers. Clients filed into the audience, taking up seats, peppering the severe grey stone with flecks of color. Hutts, rumbling their ugly guttural language, slithered down along specially extruded ramps and slowly began to fill the boxes behind Qui-Gon. He soothed Maj'lis, whose flanks were quivering as he sniffed the air, taking in alien sounds and scents. Qui-Gon kept a leisurely pace, urging the cat along with him, patrolling the perimeter of his area. Maj'lis sniffed the air and Qui-Gon did also. He caught scent of meat frying, a savory and smoky smell drifting across the basin. 

A flash of motion caught his eye-- children running dangerously close to the coiled wire, annoying audience members and disturbing food vendors and their carts, racing around the arena basin. He frowned at them, forbidding, then forgot his purpose-- the last one was Walek, trailing the group as if he were part of it. His eyes caught Qui-Gon's for half a heartbeat before the group darted away from the arranha like a school of colorful fish scattering from a predator. All of them but Walek vanished in half a dozen directions at once. The padawan hunched forward with hands on his thighs, gasping, giving a creditable imitation of being too winded to run further. 

Misi was here, then. Qui-Gon stepped forward and caught the lad's shoulder. "I believe your seat is in the southern quadrant," he rumbled. "Get back to your mistress and find your places at once." 

"Yes, sir." Walek straightened, giving Qui-Gon a convincingly worried look, and hurried off. 

Qui-Gon watched him go, weaving in and out of the crowd; there was Misi, wearing rather more modest garb than she had at the Club; Walek delivered his message and they set out together, walking briskly southward. Conveniently, Walek was not particularly skilled at shielding, so Qui-Gon found a chink where he could tether his own awareness in the padawan's mind to watch for Obi-Wan. 

He looked around the stadium again, scanning for trouble, but found only anticipation and excitement. It was early in the season; nobody had yet won or lost. There were no debts or vendettas-- not fresh ones, at least. 

The sun had melted away the thin skim of snow in the bowl except in the shadows where direct light had not yet penetrated, and the day was warming. A faint shimmer of climate-control repulsor-bubbles surrounded the cold-blooded Hutt; desert creatures, if they were exposed for too long to these temperatures, they would become torpid and eventually begin to hibernate. 

Qui-Gon led Maj'lis back to their starting position, aware that he was pacing, impatient for the contestants to emerge. Just as they arrived at their designated guardpost trumpets sounded over the public address system. The Dramacore company fanfare hushed the crowd. Everyone seemed to lean forward with anticipation as the tunnels creaked open and the gladiators emerged bearing bright banners, each group wearing tabards in identifying colors.

Qui-Gon's heart surged into his throat as Walek spied Obi-Wan; he let his mind look through the boy's eyes, his hand closing on the goad so hard it hurt. 

Walek watched as Obi-Wan's group fanned out along the wall of the arena, Tiran bearing their standard. Qui-Gon stiffened; the blue flag bore the white wings and lightsaber logo of the Jedi. Obi-Wan stood at the center of the group, dressed in the poor copy of Jedi garb that the company had provided for him. His arms were folded and his face calm, but Qui-Gon, long-time connoisseur of all things Obi-Wan, could see the subtle tension in his posture. 

He ground his teeth; Dramacore had made his Obi-Wan a target. There would be hell to pay over the unauthorized use of that symbol even if there hadn't been justice coming from the matter of the kidnapping. Qui-Gon's mouth pursed bitterly. He suspected the Council and the Senate would be at least as concerned about the former as the latter. 

As Walek watched Obi-Wan began to scan the tiers intently, searching. Searching for him, Qui-Gon realized. Seeking but not finding, a faint frown creasing his brows. 

Qui-Gon's whole soul swelled with anguished love, overwhelmed with the need to meet that gaze-- and with the growth of his love came rage. Qui-Gon shuddered, consumed by the desire to leap down, lightsaber blazing, and fight the whole damned arena if that was what it took, to wash the whole place in blood and kill every last being until Obi-Wan was safe. 

It was too powerful and too sudden for him to damp it. It flooded down the tenuous connection and Walek startled, suddenly aware of his probe. The boy's shields abruptly firmed and shut him out. 

Qui-Gon gritted his teeth with annoyance as the matches began. Today's combats were to fight hand to hand, group against group; clusters of holocam droids already flitted about, greedily filming. 

He was limited to flashes and flickers of awareness, all that he could grasp across the quarter mile that separated him from his padawan. Obi-Wan led his group into battle with Tiran at his side-- the prince had received combat training and was at least a competent ally. The girl was less so, in spite of all her battle scars, and the others protected her even as she struggled to protect the broken one. 

The Force ebbed and flowed with the fortunes of the battle. Qui-Gon could hardly keep his mind on his job; fortunately no conflict had yet erupted in his section. He had to spare time and focus to calm Maj'lis; the arranha had caught his anxiety and was shifting, claws scoring the stone, a low, quivering growl in his throat as he sought for prey to target. 

Before he had finished calming the arranha a whipcrack of Force energy startled Qui-Gon, and his fists clenched, then loosened: Misi. The Jedi Master had intervened on Obi-Wan's behalf, deflecting a kick that would have shattered his femur. Qui-Gon had hoped, but had not been entirely sure, that she would protect Obi-Wan. Her action allowed him to relax. 

He scanned the Hutt, who were cheering their own battle section, some watching individual battles on handheld viewing pads. All seemed well, so he stroked the arranha, working to calm it even as he struggled to calm himself. A cry went up from the crowd and he glanced down; a large Gamorrean had crumpled to the sand, his Malastarean opponent shaking triumphant fists over his head. 

The momentary distraction from his thoughts served to make him aware of another Djinn approaching-- it was time for him to step out and eat, then. The Djinn, a grizzled old veteran with silver-white hair trailing out from under his helm, eyed Maj'lis warily. "Don't be too long about it. I don't like watching this one." 

"Yes, _mo athair."_ Qui-Gon stepped away, sparing a glance toward the far end of the arena, but the Force was tickling at him now, urgent. He followed it away down the tunnel toward the living quarters. He moved carefully, his mind open and waiting for guidance. A few moments before he would have entered the mess, raised voices filtered into the hallway and he paused. The first was Majnun-- and anger ignited in him, a slow burning flare-- the other could only be Ruoto Millim. 

Qui-Gon froze, still as death. Pressing flush against the wall so that his shadow could not be seen through the door, he listened. 

"I don't care what you say. We're changing the schedule, Djinn. I need your best handler and your best beast; the chase has to go off tomorrow." 

"I'm still training someone to handle that beast," Majnun sounded sullen. "I was to have another lunar cycle--" 

"Fuck that, Djinn, I don't give a bantha's balls. We've got to be rid of that Jedi, _now._ The other Jedi don't like the publicity they're getting. I would've sworn they couldn't get to us, but they've found a way. Curse that little green troll!" Qui-Gon could hear Millim pacing. "He's a bastard, that one, sitting there blinking at you and tapping that fucking stick, talking in backward circles, but the whole fucking galaxy hops when he says 'frog.' The Senate passed a resolution, the wizards twisted some tails, and now the Arilan government is threatening to deny us access to the transmitters on their territory in the core. If we lose those transmitters, we lose two thirds of our viewers-- more than half the Outer Rim-- and all our advertising revenue!" Millim spat. 

"You ought to let him go." 

"We can't afford it." Millim's voice sank to a whine. "We've already sold the advertising for the chase; he's the biggest sensation since ever. The pornos alone have grossed more than last season's entire Galactic Gladiators series." 

"Still, you ought to know better than to shit where you eat." Majnun snorted. "Kidnapping a Jedi and not expecting any consequences? I should pull my people and go home now." 

"But you won't." Millim's voice changed, sly. "Because of the bonus you'll get for staying. I'll bump it to five percent of what we net from the chase if your beasts win." 

"The beasts don't concern me. My kin do." 

"You have that animal and that handler ready tomorrow or you won't get anything on contract at all-- and I'll have your worthless hide into the bargain!" 

"I'll have them ready." Majnun's hand slammed against the tabletop. "But I don't like it. What if the Jedi wins? What if he kills my kinsman?" 

"He's not winning." Millim's voice was flat. "You do your job, and I'll see to mine." 

"You'll send a man with a blaster?" Majnun scoffed. "Blasters are no good against Jedi. And if you're wrong, if any of my kin are hurt, my people and I will all return to our homeworld." Majnun's voice seethed with contempt. "Then you'll have no one to tame your precious beasts or run your precious hunt, _titim gan éirí ort!"_

"It's only for backup. Not even a Jedi can outrun the arranhar." 

"That I'll agree with," Majnun said slowly. "A Jedi could evade one arranha, maybe. I've seen men who could. But not more than one." 

"Send the whole fucking pack, then, and I don't care who handles them!" Millim threw something, a datapad, from the sound of it; glass crackled and an object slid across the floor. "Just shut up and arrange it. I've got to get to Jata and set up the press event for the starting line. The course hasn't even been defined; we'll wind up having to cover some civilian losses, but it'll be worth it to get those fucking Jedi off our backs." 

Qui-Gon slipped away and concealed himself in a cross-corridor before Millim could catch him. He could control one arranha, but more? It would take both focus and an incredible amount of power. More power than Qui-Gon could summon on his own, unless.... 

Unless he used the Dark Side to draw and amplify the Force with his rage and his pain. A Dark Jedi's power increased exponentially with the strength of his emotion, and when it came to fury over what had been done to his padawan, Qui-Gon had plenty to spare. 

How much could he handle without turning? He had no idea. Jedi tradition held that the more often a Force user drew on the Dark Side, and the more of it he used, the more he endangered his soul. Worse, the Dark always took a price-- sometimes it set up a feedback loop, enhancing the very emotions that summoned it, driving the user into a berserker rage and causing him to destroy the very goals he hoped to accomplish. 

Qui-Gon had not intentionally drawn on the Dark Side so far, though his emotional state had brought him to the very brink. To reach for it, to invite it deliberately... that wasn't flirting with damnation. That was inviting damnation in and offering it the deed to the property. 

He had much to meditate on and little time left. 

*****

Obi-Wan spun, ducking a ham-sized fist that whistled through the air where his head had been only instants before, and drove his foot into the Yuzzem's ribcage, driving it back a step. Its long arms flashed out and he fell, rolling out of its reach and nearly under Tiran's boots. 

Dust stuck to the sweat on his ribs and he spat grit out of his mouth, swiping at his hair to clear his eyes. Back again, then to the side, Obi-Wan dodged in desperation, trying to read the fighter's intentions in its eyes where once he would have listened to the whisper of the Force. The thing was advancing again, its yellow eyes gleaming through its matted fur; Obi-Wan waited until the last possible moment and dove forward under its lunge, scuttling through its legs and kicking it in the back, watching it topple. 

Gida barely avoided the avalanche of stinking fur, but at least it was down. She leaped on its head, gouging at its eyes with her thumbs. Obi-Wan scrambled forward to join her, clinging to its head as it pushed itself upright; he locked his arm around its thick, muscular neck and struggled to jerk its chin around. No result; it was too strong. It rose, hard hands clamping onto his head, starting to crush him-- but impossibly, even as he started to hear roaring in his ears, the Yuzzem's neck rotated inside his elbow and he heard the distinct snap of its vertebrae over the din of the melee. Its muscles turned to water underneath him, its hands falling away from his head. 

"Too easy," he gasped, tumbling away from the avalanche of hot, hairy animal. And it wasn't the first time; someone was interfering whenever he got in serious trouble-- a Force user, a Jedi. His master, come for him at last? But why did Qui-Gon delay? 

Obi-Wan flung a desperate glance to the stands but saw nothing, no face he recognized. There was no time for more search; another foe advanced to fill the hole left by the fallen simian, and Obi-Wan kicked the Gamorrean neatly in the kneecap, bringing it down squealing. 

He saw Tiran fall out of the corner of his eye and flung himself on the Dug who had latched onto the prince; this time it was easy to grasp its long chin in his palm and twist. Tiran scrambled up, his chest and throat bleeding from the Dug's claws, fire in his eyes. "Where's Gida?" 

Then he spied her leg, sticking out from under the yuzzem; together he and Tiran took hold of its fur and hauled it off her. She scrambled out, her nose bloodied, and struggled to stand upright. Obi-Wan noted with dismay that she was favoring her left knee. 

It seemed they had taught their nearest opponents respect; for a moment no one was eager to step in to fill the void. Obi-Wan gasped for air, trying to gauge the angle of the sun. How long had they fought, how long would it go on? He'd lost track of Taq early in the fighting. 

"My master's here, somewhere," Obi-Wan muttered. "Or some other Jedi, using the Force to help me. I couldn't have taken that one down myself." 

"Well, I wish he'd get his ass in gear and get us out of here," Tiran snarled as a wave of motion brought a group up next to them, but fortunately they were occupied with one another and the scuffle passed by. 

"Use the carcasses to make a wall." Obi-Wan began to tug. It was callous, but better than dying due to some misguided sense of honor. They soon located Taq-- playing dead, it seemed, hiding half-under the body of a downed Zabrak. He joined them reluctantly, scowling at Obi-Wan for spoiling his hiding place. 

They started to build a breastwork against the side of the arena, but the lull passed rapidly. A new attacker surged forward, and Obi-Wan leaped over the Yuzzem's corpse, catching the man under the chin with his palm and providing new building material. 

They were not the only ones who were regrouping; around the arena various knots of fighters gathered behind improvised, grisly shelters, while others-- most of them from larger, tougher races-- roamed as gangs, taking out anybody unfortunate enough to encounter them or taking over shelters improvised by weaker groups. 

In between skirmishes Obi-Wan and his friends managed to erect a decent wall, but with all the fighters reduced to wearing rags, unarmed, the best Obi-Wan could do to improvise a weapon was to snap one curving horn from a dead Nosaurian's head and use it as a crude dagger. It should work well against eyes, at least. He scanned the arena again, searching for his unseen helper, and again found nothing. All he could see were flitting holo-droids, faceless crowds, the indifferent peaks, and the curls of razor wire blocking their escape. 

Maybe he'd imagined the help; possibly his adrenaline had given him more strength than he believed in the heat of battle. It had been quick and very subtle; he couldn't be sure. 

A beast roared from overhead and behind, and Obi-Wan winced. He could see those, too: the lean-muscled, long-clawed cats that had stalked his dreams, each accompanied by an impassive, helmeted keeper. But they weren't his problem right now. 

He stabbed forward with the horn and feinted, drawing a lunge that let him trip his latest attacker. No mercy: his boot descended hard on the man's neck, and Obi-Wan spun on to the next opponent without hesitation. He was finding his rhythm and he had his second wind. His battle training came to him as naturally as breathing, and the more he fought, the more he got a feel for reading his attackers without the assistance of the Force. 

But he could only defend against what he could see. A cry of agony behind him jerked his head around. The world seemed to move in slow motion as Gida crumpled, blood spurting from her knee. A Dug stood chuckling in front of her, its claws wet and red. It reared back to follow up with another savage kick, but Taq screamed, leaping past the defensive wall to to grapple with it. Gida struggled to raise herself, her leg trailing at a sickening angle as she tried to crawl back behind the breastwork. 

"Taq!" Obi-Wan shouted, but it was too late; a Gamorrean lumbered up and closed its fist in Taq's hair, and it felt like Obi-Wan was moving through jelly instead of air as he watched the thing's arm descend and saw Taq's neck snap, his head sagging to one side. 

Tiran was turning, falling in at Obi-Wan's side, teeth bared with fury. They went for the attackers together. Obi-Wan felt his heel catch Taq's killer in the chin and watched with distant, hollow satisfaction as the force of his stroke exploded the pig's jaw; Tiran grappled with the Dug and Obi-Wan took advantage of its distraction to slice his arm across its throat like a bludgeon, crushing its jugular. It fell, bubbling. 

Too late. Obi-Wan screamed his frustration and grief, not caring who might see his anguish. The Jedi could have stopped this. Should have. 

Obi-Wan could hear Gida sobbing from behind the grisly wall. Taq lay very still on the ground, his face white. 

Obi-Wan stood over him, driving all comers away from they boy's corpse and away from Gida. Tiran fought at his side, both of them scratched and bloodied and not knowing whether the fluid on their faces was sweat or tears, until the sun sank behind one of the tall mountain peaks and the long, high-pitched shriek of a trumpet brought the combat to a halt. 

Obi-Wan stood blinking, the perspiration on his body chilling instantly in the bitter wind that swept down from the mountain peaks. He was surprised to find himself alive. 

Still there was no sign of his master as he scanned the stands, as tunnel doors squealed open and he and the others were herded down to their dormitories, their ranks decimated. 

He and Tiran helped Gida up and retreated into the cold stone tunnel. He was too weary and numb to feel much of anything when he saw Jata and Bilam waiting in the dormitory. 

Jata shifted, looking almost nervous, and Bilam scowled. 

"So you survived." Jata took a half-step forward. "That's good, because I have a use for you." He gestured to a handful of security guards. "Take him to the medical unit and patch up anything that's wrong with him, especially his face. Then wash him and run him by costuming and have them do him a chase outfit. You run tomorrow at dawn, Jedi." 

"Run?" Obi-Wan stilled, taking a wary step back as the guards advanced. 

"You run the chase, from the arranhar." Jata smiled a little, sourly. Two guards seized Obi-Wan's upper arms and two more bracketed Tiran. "Special edition programming. Just to be sure you don't try anything funny, we'll be keeping your friends here very close. Any monkey business and they die. If you win, all of you can go free." 

Gida tensed against his side, and Obi-Wan could smell that lie even without her silent warning or the aid of the Force. Jata's half-conciliatory, half-contemptuous smirk practically oozed deception. 

"I'll need a weapon." 

"You can use anything you find." Jata smiled humorlessly. 

"I'll hold you to that," Obi-Wan returned the smile in kind, and Jata rewarded him with the faintest of flinches. Obi-Wan held his eyes until he looked away, savoring even that small victory. 

"You should give him back the Force," Gida injected. "Your precious audience won't think much of your claim that he's a Jedi if he can't do anything special." 

Incredibly, instead of refusing, Jata scowled at her, tapping his fingers on the table. "What kind of bargain would you offer for it, Jedi?" 

Obi-Wan glanced between Gida and Jata, his mind racing-- this was unexpected, to say the least. "You obviously have something in mind," he said slowly. "What do you want?" 

"Call off your damned Council," Jata snapped. "Send a personal message telling the little green troll you're with us voluntarily, sign a damages/personal health indemnification waiver for the chase, and vouch for us in a commercial so that the Arilan transmitters won't lock us out. Do that and I'll give you back enough to show some flash." 

Obi-Wan drew a startled breath. "That's a high price." The Council would want him to refuse; he knew that without even thinking-- obviously they were at work behind the scenes and any bargain on his part would severely disrupt their plans. 

And yet, thinking back to the quiet help he had received today, the all-but-passive help that had allowed Taq to die and that had never manifested in the form of rescue... did he actually care whether he upset the Council or not? Qui-Gon would not; he would do what he believed was right. Obi-Wan knew any contract he signed or stated would be invalid, his agreements obtained under duress. The only thing the Jedi might lose would be public approval. The contract would give him success in his primary mission: returning Tiran to his father. 

Maybe this was how his master came to his occasional decisions to defy the Council, which Obi-Wan sometimes found so very difficult to understand. 

"I'll do it," Obi-Wan said slowly, "on one condition. You let Gida and Tiran go. Put them in a spaceship and send them to Xinune. Now. I want to supervise every step of it. Then remove the capsule and I'll make your recordings for you before I run." 

"Tiran can go. Not the girl." Jata smirked. "I require leverage to ensure your cooperation-- and his. You all seem quite touchingly fond of one another." 

Tiran scowled blackly and shook his head even as Gida lifted her chin. "Do it, Obi." 

"It's a bargain," he agreed reluctantly. Better one than none, and Tiran was his mission, his primary responsibility. 

"Done," Jata agreed smoothly. "Bilam, radio for one of the light hyperspace runabouts and have them park it by the tunnel. Then go get the items we discussed; we'll be leaving shortly. Now let's get you slicked up, Jedi." 

Obi-Wan and Gida were hustled out separately to have their injuries treated. When Obi-Wan returned, there was no sign of Bilam. Jata cursed savagely, stabbing at his comlink to no avail, then dispatched another guard to look for him. 

Tiran scowled at him without speaking, and Obi-Wan sighed. "You said it yourself-- there are too many of us for me to defend, and you're my mission. You have a responsibility to the people of Xinune. Your safety is important." 

A group of men stepped in, escorting a holo-droid. Jata accepted a handful of papers from the leader and held them out to Obi-Wan. "Study your script." 

Obi-Wan did so and sighed; much though he hated playing into their hands, he couldn't see another viable choice, not one that would get Tiran to safety. He did have a small recourse, however, and it was time to use it. 

He sat down in the chair they provided and began to record the messages as directed, adding the subtle pattern of blinks and body motions every padawan learned before ever leaving the creche: the discreet code signal for "Jedi in distress." It would alert the Council that he didn't mean a word of what he said, and that should provide some legal protection, should any court be required to adjudicate whether the agreements he mouthed were binding. 

When he had finished Jata signaled the guards and they swept out-- without Bilam, Obi-Wan noted with more than idle curiosity about what might have happened to his jailor. But there was no interference as they were taken out of the tunnel to the arena where ships waited. Crews had just begun to deal with the dead: heavy loading equipment plowed the corpses into piles, and then scoop-lifters dumped the bodies into a barge freighter for removal. 

Obi-Wan supervised the brief preparation of Tiran's small, single-man runabout, satisfying himself that there had been no monkey business with its computer or its systems, and locked the autopilot himself to ensure Tiran could not return and get himself killed trying to stage a rescue. He stepped back as his friend was pushed forward, cursing and struggling, and averted his eyes from Tiran's desperate, furious gaze. 

"Damn it, Obi-Wan!" 

"May the Force be with you," Obi-Wan answered him quietly. "My regards to your father and Master Qui-Gon." 

"If you cause trouble we won't be responsible for the girl-- and we'll broadcast your erotic videos all over Xinune," Jata added as the prince was hustled forward and shoved into the cockpit. "Just remember that and remember the contract you signed. Be sure to talk to some damn good legal counsel before you come rushing back here with a bunch of your daddy's guards and your dick in your fist." 

The cockpit closed over Tiran's curses and his ship launched in a flurry of buffeting wind from its repulsor jets, rapidly dwindling to a speck in the sky, then vanishing. 

Obi-Wan was hustled back down into the dormitory to wait for morning. 

*****

Qui-Gon saw to it that Maj'lis was bedded down in his cage and fed, then went off with the others to the mess hall. After a desultory meal with the other Djinn, he found his feet leading him back out into the arena and decided to follow them. A small horde of beings swept the stands, removing the dropped food and the other litter in preparation for the next day's battle. 

Qui-Gon's felt both agitated and enervated, a twitchy combination. He decided to explore and see where the Force might lead him. Several tunnels, then random twists and turns, led him into a passage with a lift. He stepped in and punched a button at random; the lift lurched upward. 

He arrived at his floor without anyone else boarding and stepped off, finding himself in a carpeted corridor with doors on either side: accommodations, perhaps, lodgings or offices for wealthy patrons or employees. Several side corridors branched out at intervals, then branched again; the place was a veritable maze. 

These rooms were located near the top of the arena; he could feel the thrumming of engines from the large transports tethered to their docking platforms. There were hundreds of rooms carved into the stone here, some numbered, some not. 

A door hissed and Qui-Gon stepped into a convenient corridor. A heavyset man wearing a filthy gray coverall passed, never noticing him. The man carried a box piled high with clothing and random objects-- and, poking out of one corner, one familiar item: a silver tube with a black-ribbed grip. 

Obi-Wan's lightsaber. 

Qui-Gon fell in behind the man, as silent as death; the overhead lights muddied the shadows in the place, and the man remained unaware of Qui-Gon even as he paused before the lift and thumbed the call button casually. Qui-Gon folded his arms inside his sleeves. The man stank of sour, stale sweat and some kind of pungent spice; he scratched his ankle with the toe of his boot and grunted quietly. 

The lift door opened swiftly and the man stepped in, Qui-Gon after him. As the door shut he finally became aware of Qui-Gon's presence. 

"Fuck the little gods, you scared me--" the man started, then halted, knuckles going white on the box he held. 

"Where are you going with those things?" Qui-Gon's voice rasped softly in his throat. 

"None of your damn business." The fat man backed away, felt the wall at his shoulders and halted with nowhere left to go. 

"That isn't yours." The lightsaber gleamed softly in the mellow ambient light, and those were Obi-Wan's leathers, too, folded neatly in a pile. Qui-Gon could not identify the other things; one resembled a hypospray. Drugs to inject into Obi-Wan? 

"You Djinn are supposed to be down with the cats; handlers aren't allowed on this level," the man tried to bluster, but fear curled in his aura, and he pressed tighter against the wall. 

"Where are you going?" This time Qui-Gon lashed out with Force behind his words-- so hard that the man whimpered and dropped the box, the contents spilling out. Obi-Wan's lightsaber rolled to Qui-Gon's feet and came to a stop against his boot. 

"To take this to Jata!" 

"Where is Jata?" 

"In the combat barracks level with the Jedi!" 

"Take me there,"Qui-Gon pressed again and saw a trickle of blood begin to well at the base of the man's nostril. He bent, keeping his eyes on the man, and picked up the lightsaber. Its grip felt cool, smaller than his own, designed for Obi-Wan's smaller hands. He tucked it behind his belt, never releasing the man's eyes as his command took hold. The man reached, shaking, and pressed a button; tremors wracked him and suddenly Qui-Gon could smell urine. A dark patch spread on the man's trousers. "Who are you?" he demanded. 

"B-b-bilam." 

Qui-Gon felt his teeth set and grind. "I know that name. You abduct prisoners for the arena." 

"Yes." The man wiped at his nose nervously, smearing blood over his face. 

"What else do you do?" 

Bilam struggled for a moment, but Qui-Gon's grip on his mind was stronger than Bilam's terror, and his throat worked with difficulty. "Guard the prisoners. Discipline them when they get out of line." Qui-Gon could see the images flashing behind the man's eyes; the man's soul ran as deep and bitter as a poisoned well, his spirit shot through with cruelty, oozing with filthy joy in others' pain. His most recent memories included raping the scarred girl. Behind that Qui-Gon could see him slapping another prisoner, a Rodian Qui-Gon didn't recognize. More memories rose: beating the blond boy from the videos with a shock-lance. Striking Obi-Wan with one of his fists and Obi-Wan falling, a bruise immediately appearing to mar his cheek. The man's foot drew back to deliver a kick, as well. 

Red rage flared in Qui-Gon's mind and his fists contracted. Bilam's eyes bulged, and his hands flew to his throat. He scrabbled there, tearing his coverall. His face flushed crimson and capillaries began to fill and burst in his eyes and cheeks. Soon he slumped, thudding noisily to the floor, nails scratchin desperately at the wall. Then, with a final shudder he lay still. 

Qui-Gon blinked with sudden horror, realizing too late what he was doing; the energy he channeled snapped free. Ungrounded it recoiled, slamming back into him. He hissed, a sudden headache driving spikes into his temples. He fell to his knees next to Bilam, reaching out with desperate remorse. 

There was no pulse. 

Qui-Gon rose slowly, nearly falling as the elevator shuddered to a stop, reaching out for balance. The body would be found if he abandoned it here; there would be trouble. 

He caught Bilam by his boots and dragged him out. They had stopped on the arena level, a fortunate destination-- it was only a few meters out onto the battle floor, where the dead still lay scattered like carrion. He dumped the guard and his box on a heap of other bodies, glancing across the arena. Ships and loading equipment had clustered there, and the corpses were being removed with a cold and businesslike efficiency. 

He turned and strode back inside, making it nearly to the barracks before the shudders hit him, driving him up against a wall lest he simply crumple to the floor. His once-simple need to refine his center and achieve balance with his feelings for Obi-Wan had turned into a full-scale descent into madness-- faster than he would ever have dreamed possible. If he hadn't repressed his feelings so tightly and for so long, if he'd acknowledged them and dealt with them instead, perhaps they would not have taken disastrous control of him. But he hadn't. He had never allowed himself to admit he had them and had not come to terms with them, and his very self-denial had invited this disaster. Better if he had let himself want Obi-Wan, let himself take what his padawan so clearly wanted to give... learned to accept and balance, learned to deal with his fears. 

Hindsight was of no benefit. 

Qui-Gon stood there and breathed through it, forcing air in and out of his lungs, trying to find something that would pass for equilibrium so that he could go back among the others without giving away his agitation. He could still redeem himself, he knew, if he withdrew from the Dark Side before it claimed more of him. This was a distinct warning-- not without precedent. Many Jedi were tempted to turn; temptation and strong emotion were not things that ended with graduation to knighthood or mastery or even a seat on the Council. When a Jedi darkened, soul healers could be consulted and peace could be reclaimed, though it was a hard road back to the light. 

The farther he traveled down the path towards the Dark Side, the less likely he could return on his own, if at all. But he had no leisure to withdraw himself now and get the help he needed. Not with Obi-Wan's life at stake. He must go on, accepting the risks, and see this bitter road to its end even if that end was brought by another Jedi's blade. His own, if it came to that. 

Eventually his heart slowed and the tremor left his fingers; his feet followed the commands of his mind and he stepped forward, one boot after the other, into the barracks where his gear waited. 

The others were mostly sleeping or had gone into the living area to talk and play games; no one was watching. 

He reached into his belt and eased out Obi-Wan's lightsaber. He was too distraught to find the faint sense of Obi-Wan's presence, so he handled the weapon instead, stroking one thumb along the silver and black column that contained the power cell, the focusing crystal, and the activator stud. He flashed back, for an instant, on the sensation of his own flesh in this same palm, hot and velvet and alive; Obi-Wan's saber might almost be alive also, so deeply imbued with Obi-Wan's aura as to be inextricable from it, built piece by piece by his padawan's own hands and mind, constructed with his padawan's understanding, and used for thousands of hours by Obi-Wan in practice, sparring, and battle. His flesh twitched, filling slightly, responding to his memories. He abruptly thrust the hilt into his pack, drawing back as if he had been burned. His tainted hands did not belong on something so personal to Obi-Wan. 

He fastened his pack and shoved it under his bed. Then he lay down, trying and failing to court sleep. 

The night stretched interminably, but all he could see were the broken capillaries in Bilam's face, the way the man's fingers had drawn blood as he scratched at his own throat, and the way he had lain slumped on the carrion heap as if there had never been a soul inside the crude matter that comprised his body. Bilam could have led him to Obi-Wan, if Qui-Gon had not killed him. Truly the Dark Side could not be trusted. 

"Time to get up, lads!" Majnun's voice interrupted his meditations, loud and jarring in the dim expanse of the barracks. "I know it's early. Hands off your roots and put on your boots. We've a busy day of it ahead-- not what you're expecting. Come on, get up! Meet me at the beast cages before the hour turns. Wear your best cold weather gear. Up!" 

Qui-Gon obeyed, his muscles stiff, his eyes grainy and dry. They had ten minutes to dress and get where they were going. 

When they arrived at the cages, Majnun was waiting with boxes of ration concentrate bars for each of them. He passed them out briskly. "Make it last; there may not be more until the show's over. The Company has decided to produce a special feature: a once-in-a-lifetime chase starring their pet Jedi. Now, we've never chased a Jedi before, but they're tricky, so the rules have changed. For one thing, we're all going after him at once. Yes, all." He slashed his hand to one side, quelling the startled murmur that arose to greet the announcement. "If he can't stay ahead of all of us on his own, we're to corral him and herd him toward the finish. As usual, let him go if you have a chance to cut him down early. We need enough footage to make the audience enjoy the show. Close calls are good. We'll film some filler, too, some action shots they can intercut to build suspense. Standard stuff. Everybody will have a holodroid or two tailing you, so think dramatic and move big. You'll have speeder bikes; they'll keep you out of tight quarters and that gives him an advantage up here, but we don't want to catch up with him on the mountain anyway." 

Majnun passed down the line, handing every man a datapad out of a leather bag that hung at his side. "This is your mission information. There's a map of the course and the surrounding areas in case he gets off track. If he strays too far, it'll be augmented remotely so you can keep following him. You can use this to transmit or receive; check in with each other regularly. He'll be the blue blip and all of you will be red. Tap a blip to see who it is and a menu will come up. You can send transmissions, voice or info, to whoever you need." 

Qui-Gon checked hastily, but no blue blip showed yet, only the red ones all milling together at the lower lefthand corner of the screen. He swiped it with his finger to expand the image, zooming in, then reducing it again. 

"The last quarter of the course is the payoff zone, and the last eighth is where we go balls to the wall if we don't have him down already. When you get him in the last quarter, we'll stay in constant contact with the nearest of you. But remember, even in the homestretch, if you have a chance at a kill, get authorization first." He glared at them sternly. "If the Jedi is as tough as rumors say, we'll want you to stick close together. The first kill-call will go to a single one of you, but if that man fails, then we'll send several at once for the next. I don't want to lose any of you, so be careful! He won't respond like a regular runner. Jata says they're withdrawing his psi-suppressant to make the chase more exciting. Watch out for levitation, mental domination, enhanced stamina and speed, telekinesis of all kinds. For all I know, he could use his mind to set you on fire." Majnun pinched his lips, clearly displeased. 

"It may be a challenge, but Jedi can be killed just like anyone, and this one's our job." His mouth twisted into a hard smirk. "We're being well-paid for this. Let's do everything we can to be sure every one of us survives to enjoy the rewards." Majnun's nod acknowledged the enthusiastic agreement his statement received. 

"The finish line is the usual-- the city center in Stereme. He isn't to make it there. This one goes down even if we have to cheat; with all the damned Republic politicos interested in this one's fate, it's too dangerous to let him survive." Majnun looked at them all sternly. "Civilians along the route have been warned. Try to avoid all the innocents you can, but if a few get in the way, that's their misfortune." 

He drew the briefing to a close. "Get out the cats, giving them light feed only. We want them hungry. We start in the arena as soon as the sun comes up over the mountain. He'll get an hour's head-start, but they need us to be there when he goes so we'll be in the vids." 

Qui-Gon hurried with the rest of the Djinn, tending Maj'lis as directed, his thoughts in a whirl. Foremost was his relief that Obi-Wan would have his Force-blocker removed; following close behind it was fear. Some psi-suppressant drugs didn't flush out of the system readily; Obi-Wan's control might be diminished and erratic. 

More frightening still was the silent brooding of the Force in Qui-Gon's own mind. Touching and reading the Unifying Force was never his greatest strength. Weakness there, combined with the muddying influence of the Dark Side that hung about him, meant the future was entirely closed to him. He was confident an arranha would catch up with his padawan-- the dreams had foretold that-- and he knew that he and Maj'lis would be the fastest of them all, but how would he spirit Obi-Wan away safely once he caught him? 

He would simply have to trust in the Living Force, live in the moment, and let the moment provide.

*************************

GLOSSARY

Arilan: Some group of people somewhere near the Galactic Core who own a hell of a lot of holotransmission emitters. 

Arranhar: "To claw" in Portuguese (Verb form used as plural noun here because it's cool-sounding). The name of the clawed species that are Dramacore's preferred pursuit predators. Singular: Arranha. I am told this also means "skyscraper" in colloquial Portuguese. So much for the language resource I used to find out its meaning! 

Bant: Master Tahl's padawan learner, Obi-Wan's best friend. 

Bilam: Male employee of Dramacore. Fat, bald, and cruel, but not too smart. Gets off on physical torture of prisoners. Wears filthy grey coverall. Not the guy you wanna be if you dislike choking. 

Birin: Generic Jedi Knight responding to Qui-Gon's call for backup on Xinune. 

Cai: Partner to Knight Birin. Generic helpful backup Jedi and faceless pawn in the horrible machinations of Lilith Sedai. 

Cido: Male prisoner of Dramacore. Also generic. 

_Damnú ort, streachailt leathair Jedi striapach!:_ Damn you, fucking (literally, 'leather stretching') Jedi whore! 

Delta 6: Obi-Wan's single-man starfighter at the time of this fic, equipped with a hyperspace ring for long-distance travel. See Wookieepedia. 

Draigon: A creature referenced in the Jedi Apprentice YA book series, these are probably pretty much just small dragons. Obi-Wan fought them as a very young man before Qui-Gon took him as his padawan. 

Dramacore: Holovid company, notorious for reality broadcasts of to-the-death gladiatorial combat and hard-core pornography. Filthy rich. Kidnaps people to make them stars. Doesn't always pay out to stars/prisoners as promised if they win. 

_Feisigh do thoin fein:_ Fuck your own ass. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Gida: Female prisoner of Dramacore, has survived one arena combat. Scarred and cynical, the most experienced of the prisoners. I based her on Zooey Deschanel, but you don't have to think of her that way if you don't like. 

_Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat:_ May the cat eat you and the devil eat the cat. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

_Go hifreann leat, cailleach:_ Go to hell, you old witch. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Jata: Male Dramacore employee, thin with white, tightly-curled hair. Clever bastard who gets up to psychological games with prisoners. You don't wanna be him, either. 

Jom: Male lieutenant under Captain Kalare in King Tabare's personal guard force. 

Kalari: Female captain of King Tabare's personal guard force. 

_Ki-Gün Djinn is ainm dom:_ My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). Wow, this is a bad one; any linguist worth a damn would beat me half to death for combining fake Arabic names with words from Irish Gaelic and blaming it all on one culture. If you wanted to go through the same mental gymnastics and web inquiries I did, you'd discover this phrase means something very like "Qui-Gon Jinn is the name on me." The only justification for the Djinn using Irish Gaelic as their native language is, of course, Liam Neeson's irrepressible Irish brogue, which by default has to be the faint remnant of Qui-Gon's first language (blame George for hiring an Irishman who is constitutionally incapable of saying 'anything' instead of 'ennathin,' and then telling him he has to try to sound American). 

Maj'lis: A particularly dominant young male arranha, difficult to control. Has killed keepers. 

Majnun Djinn: One of the reclusive Djinn, an employee of Dramacore who works as chief handler for the arranhar. Majnun is Arabic for "Familiar spirit," which is, simply enough, a synonym for "Djinn." I am also told that this research was inadequate, and that Majnun means crazy/obsessive/etc. But I already had it in place, so I'm stuck with it. The only religious or political significance I intend by using "Djinn" is a vague mythological association with wizards and giants-- and George already did that anyway when he named Qui-Gon. I based Majnun on a friend of mine who has about the right body type, but who would probably kill me with his bare hands for me cursing him with long hair. And he'd have EVERY right to. Sorry, A. B. M.! 

Mirani: Female prisoner of Dramacore. 

Misi Raksen: A Jedi watchman, specializing in the culture, lore, and situations of the sector where Xinune is located. Uses a yellow lightsaber. 

_Mo Athair:_ my father. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

_Mo dheartháir:_ my brother. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

Nosaurian: See Nosaurian on Wookieepedia. 

Ruoto Millim: Male Dramacore employee. High level, oily, sleazebucket. Think a combination of Eddie Izzard in Velvet Goldmine and Richard Dawson in The Running Man. 

She'ba: A female arranha, old enough that she is extremely docile and agreeable by comparison to the others, but still extremely deadly and easily angered. 

Sljee: The only sentient being I could find on Wookieepedia that was bountifully equipped with the fully articulated tentacles I required for executing Jata's nefarious script. See on Wookieepedia. 

Slave minder: A small transmitter implanted in a slave, constantly transmitting the slave's location to its owner's comm console. They are rigged to explode upon removal, remote trigger, or in response to tampering, so that slaves can't cut them out and run away. 

So'lis: Majnun Djinn's preferred partner arranha. Male, very quick and agile. 

Stereme: City in which Dramacore has a facility for filming and supporting chase programs. Chases in which the target survives end here. 

_Tá tú glan as do mheabhair:_ You are completely out of your mind. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Tabare: King who calls for Jedi assistance with finding his missing son. 

Tahl: Jedi Master, Loremaster, Qui-Gon's long-time romantic interest, though they remained celibate. Blinded during her last mission as a Jedi Guardian and rescued by Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. I based her on Jada Pinkett Smith, but who knows what George thinks? 

Takat: City in which King Tabare's palace is located; government seat of his realm. 

Taq: Male prisoner of Dramacore, seems unusually perceptive and might have a small amount of Force sensitivity. Not very resilient. Based on a young Cary Elwes. 

Tiran: Prince; Tabare's son, kidnapped by Dramacore. Obi-Wan's old friend and lover. Based on a young Christian Bale. Mmmmm, pretty. 

_Titim gan éirí ort:_ May you fall without rising. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Walek: 10-year-old padawan learner to Master Misi Raksen (age as of this segment of the story). 

Xinune: Planet on which Tabare is King; Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are sent there to investigate Prince Tiran's disappearance.


	4. The Chase

Obi-Wan stood amidst his guards, waiting to enter the Arena. The sun still had not emerged from behind a high peak, but when it breached the horizon the opening ceremonies would begin. Then the tunnel nearest him would open onto a glacier field and he could run. 

He ran his fingertips along his belly, where a small, fresh scar marked the removal of the Force inhibitor. He still couldn't feel the Force when he reached out; the drugs would take time to dissipate. He thought he could just feel it, faintly, as if he were squinting to see through a smoked-glass lens. 

He bounced on his heels, looking around the stands, where patrons had begun to pour in, the cold-hardiest races first. Rays of sunlight streamed from behind the peak, dazzling the atmosphere, which was full of blowing ice-particles. 

He had requested and obtained cold-weather gear: an insulated thermal suit and socks lay beneath his cobbled-together false Jedi robes. He also wore gloves, a fur-lined hat, and a pair of goggles so he wouldn't go snow-blind. They had refused him more; he had no weapons, no food or water, and no map. 

He occupied his time watching the crowd. He had already spent most of the night compulsively reviewing his cold-weather survival skills: how to avoid crevasses, avalanches, hypothermia. 

He reached for the Force again, but it eluded him, slipping through his fingers like water-- still, he had touched it this time. It felt better than good. He let his eyes close as he tried to find his center, growing more aware of the currents of half-unseen power sliding gently around him. He would need it to survive the ice fields. Without commanding the Force, he could either be careful of his footing or he could run fast-- not both. 

He missed the comforting weight of his lightsaber at his belt nearly as much as he missed his master's presence, but neither of those things could be helped. 

A sliver of icy white fire erupted from behind the peak: local dawn. A guard prodded Obi-Wan and he stepped forward, calm. From the opposite end of the arena a line of beings began to stream out as well. They alternated, one going left and the next moving right, fanning out and taking up a crescent position against the arena walls: arranhar, the big cats moving like flowing water, each with a cloaked and helmeted handler at its side. There were thirty-one of them in all, and the last one was enormous-- half again as big as its nearest rival. Instead of taking up a position in the arc, it moved straight forward toward Obi-Wan, stopping between the two horns of the crescent. It clawed the stone impatiently with one forepaw, a terrible screeching wail, and snarled. Its handler put one hand on its shoulder and it subsided, its narrow eyes fixed on Obi-Wan. The handler turned and eyed him as well; he could make out no part of a face inside the helmet, but even without touching the Force he could feel the man's sharp eyes studying him. 

He swallowed hard in spite of himself, confronted at last by the monster of his nightmares, and lifted his chin in defiance. Holodroids flitted and skimmed everywhere, filming every angle, buzzing like wasps around his ears as they circled him. 

Other fighters stepped out of the tunnels, bearing banners; they formed two rough lines, a lane leading toward Obi-Wan's escape tunnel. The cloth of the flags snapped and whipped in the bitter wind, the sun lighting the cloth up in a brilliant blaze of colors. Obi-Wan stood very still, conserving his energy, and listened to the roar of the crowd. 

A fanfare blew, tinny and off-key in the biting air, and an announcer's voice boomed, welcoming the honored audience to the chase. The announcer introduced Obi-Wan and pointed out the arranhar. He invited patrons to visit the wagering windows and enjoy the show, and promised it would be broadcast in the center of the ring, a hologram large enough for everyone in the bowl to see. 

Obi-Wan flexed his muscles, performing a set of isometrics to keep himself limber and warm. The steady regard of the cats and their keepers made him nervous, much more so than the seething audience. He kept very still, giving them no sense of his fear or his worries.

The announcer's spiel was winding down, so Obi-Wan began to prepare himself for flight. Cautiously he drew more air into his lungs, working to elevate his heart rate and prepare his systems for exertion. The Force was slightly stronger now, though still elusive. Something tickled at him but he could not quantify it, the impression floating just out of reach each time he extended his mind. 

Then came the sound he had been waiting for: a loud crack, an explosion and a puff of smoke, signaled the start of the chase. He took wing, feet barely touching the ground as he raced down the short length of tunnel and out onto the shadowed expanse of an ice field. There were footprints everywhere, which meant a lesser chance of crevasses at least for the moment. Obi-Wan struck out for the horizon, keeping the sun behind him-- he could just make out the glint of buildings on the distant plain, his ultimate destination. 

The arena receded behind him, crowd roar fading into the wide, bright sky. Soon all he could hear was the rumbling of transport engines and the white, windy silence of the mountains around him. Now there were no prints, and he had to go carefully, longing for a stick to test the ground before him. His internal clock was counting, and he knew it would not be long before the cats pursued him down the tunnel. Their sense of smell would be acute, and they would see the damned holodroids following him, skimming about like ugly black bats to mark his position even if he went to ground. 

Obi-Wan reached for the Force, and like a miracle, it was there. He drew it carefully, shivering as it filled him, speeding his steps. Moving this fast he might leap right over any crevasses, and the Force would guide his steps, leading him around dangers. It still felt tenuous, weak and pale, but it was better than water in a desert. 

A ribbon of clear ice lay along his course, pure crystal blue, and he moved without thinking, nearing it. It dived into a crack not far ahead. The Force whispered to him very softly, but he heard and obeyed. 

He leaped and slid down the ribbon into the ground. It took him down a long waterfall, jostling and bumping him mercilessly, but the angle was not steep, and when the watercourse spilled into a basin at the bottom of the drop, he was able to bounce away from the ice-crusted pool and land on the bank. There was less snow here and no wind; plenty of diffuse light came into the cavern from the gaps of crevasses far above. 

It would be hard for the beasts to get down here. Obi-Wan's chances depended on seizing small delays and advantages. Ignoring the holodroids, he ran along a ledge, keeping his feet out of the channel of the water, glad that it was still cold enough that the snowmelt was running low. The carved channel would be nearly full at midsummer, but for now there was room enough to run without wetting his feet, and that was urgently important. 

They would be behind him, now. Inexorable and patient-- at least at this phase of the chase. He was canny enough to know they wouldn't catch him right away; they needed footage, and killing him two or three hours after the event began wouldn't sell any advertising. This was all about the show. He could guess what the arena audience was seeing-- artistic shots of his grace and footwork intercut steadily with shots of the arranhar pursuing him, finding his prints in the snow, examining the crevasse where he had left the surface. He could clearly picture the patient and inexorable descent of the pursuit. 

He drew near a bright slit of light and realized his subterranean river was vanishing under a glacier. Stepping out into the sunlight he hesitated, pulling his goggles up over his eyes. The sun was well up now and the white snow shone like the blinding arc of a welding torch. 

He would need drinking water at some point, but he hoped to be out of the snowfields before he had to drink. Melting ice would drain him of much-needed body heat. 

His Force-sense was no stronger than it had been; in fact, it had dimmed as a headache began to flare between Obi-Wan's temples. He squinted gingerly-- he was experiencing withdrawal symptoms, perhaps; normally he wasn't prone to headaches, but his body would be feeling the lack of its usual drug cocktail. 

There were no trees here, but wherever sentients went, they left debris-- and a snarl of wires and trash had accumulated next to the lip of the hole where the water channel vanished under the glacier. Obi-wan dug through it, tossing aside food wrappers, cups, and junk-- and found what he could hardly have dared to hope for: a metal reinforcing spar about as long as he was tall, thin enough to fit comfortably inside his palm and light enough to carry. 

It would make an excellent walking stick and spear. It might have even been left deliberately for him to find. 

Obi-Wan firmed his jaw and set out across the tumbled surface of the glacier, picking his way over razor-sharp ridges of ice carved in knife-fingers by the droning winds. Slow and steady, he ignored the increasing spike of the headache and the way his fingers wanted to tremble. The Force eluded him again, driven out of reach by the discomfort, leaving him imprisoned on an endless white plain where no matter how he struggled and scrambled, he never seemed to get any closer to the far side. 

He looked back once and spotted a glint of metal on a high cliff roughly above the place where he had found his spear. A glint and a dark figure-- a handler and a beast, watching him. There was nothing he could do about the pursuit, so he turned his back on them and pressed onward. 

*****

Qui-Gon lowered his electro-binoculars reluctantly, gazing down the sheer face of the granite cliff to the glacier below. He couldn't take this slope with the speeder bike; no land-bound craft could, and Maj'lis couldn't manage it either. They would have to go around. His pada-- Obi-Wan was clever, maybe too clever for his own good. If he could catch up and get Obi-Wan on the speeder bike, they could make a run for it to the Delta Six, cram into the cockpit together, evade whatever aerial pursuit Dramacore could throw together, and endure the cramped quarters for as long as it took to get to a safe world. But Obi-Wan was not an easy quarry. 

Where the hell were Misi and Walek? He would give a great deal to know. 

Qui-Gon clicked his tongue for the arranha and threw a leg over the body of the bike, settling into the saddle and sweeping the machine about in a tight half-circle, doubling back to look for a way down. The other handlers waited near the edge of the ice shelf and they gunned their engines to follow him. 

Majnun brought his bike up close. "Visual?" 

"Confirmed," Qui-Gon responded shortly. "He's going on much as we anticipated. He should make the edge of the glacial shelf by nightfall." 

"There's another cache there and a Jedi ought to know enough to make a snow-cave-- if he has the sense to stop when the temperature falls." 

Qui-Gon devoutly hoped Obi-Wan did. Temperatures on the mountains could fall to dangerous levels: a man could spit and it would crack and freeze solid before it ever struck the ground. Any exposed skin would blister and turn black, and trying to breathe the frigid air might cause a lung hemorrhage. 

*****

Obi-Wan was flagging badly by the time the sun crossed overhead and began to descend in front of him; he had lost all sense of the Force, and dragged himself along carefully, stabbing with his spear and then feeling the ground ahead with his boot before stepping on the snow. Twice, seemingly solid drifts had collapsed into a void just before he committed his weight to them; it was only luck that had kept him from falling. 

His throat was dry and his lungs burned with every piercing breath, but the harsh glacial shelf was nearly behind him now. He could see the gray teeth of a stone ridge thrust through the snow, channeling the glacier down the valley, and he had to force himself not to quicken his pace for fear that he would miss a crevasse and fall. 

Finally the last knife-sharp teeth of the glacier were behind him and he stumbled into the shade of the ridge, blinking at the sudden relative dimness. Something waved in the wind in front of him, and after a few moments he realized it was the long fur of a pelt-- something had died here, died and frozen and had not yet been found by predators. 

Meat. He had nothing to cut the frozen carcass with and nothing to burn for a fire, not this far above the tree line, but there were sharp-edged rocks in the ridge and maybe one of them would serve as a crude chopping tool. 

He hadn't seen the arranhar since mid-morning when the cliff halted them, but he knew they had been making the best of the day. With their speeder bikes and superior knowledge of the terrain, the handlers could easily get in front of him and herd him along exactly as they liked. 

Obi-Wan picked a likely stone and returned to the carcass, choosing a haunch and setting to work. The dull crunching of the stone made his chilled fingers ache and the impact of the blows rattled the headache in his skull. He worried he wasn't thinking clearly and took care to keep the fingers of his free hand well away from the area where he was chopping. His coordination was off, and he didn't want to amputate a finger or worse. 

Finally he loosened the haunch and dragged it off the carcass. A wide swath of the beast's thick fur pulled away with it. He lifted the fur and the meat, looking up to the sky. He had maybe half an hour of daylight left, maybe less. The wind was already slicing through his clothing as if he had nothing on; it was time to build a shelter. The ever-present holodroids clicked and buzzed overhead, recording happily; bitterly he hoped they were satisfied with his performance. 

Without tools or a shelter tent, he would have to make do with a snow-cave. 

Once again taking up his stone chopper, Obi-Wan began to dig into the face of a compressed drift, packing down snow and working to dig a tunnel, and then struggling to shovel out a cavity large enough to lie down in. The snow was ideal, heavy and compressed; it did not collapse as he worked and eventually he constructed a nest large enough to contain him. 

Scraping along the floor to even it, he realized he had struck dirt. After a moment, understood that it was not dirt at all, but dung, well-dried from the bitter cold. He could burn it if he could muster enough concentration to find the Force and create a spark. 

Entirely too convenient, the drift and the carcass and the dung. They smacked of outside interference-- Dramacore's way of ensuring the chase would make it into a second day. But Obi-Wan was too exhausted and cold to reject the gift. 

He drilled a few carefully-placed ventilation holes with his metal pole, then crawled into the shelter with the meat and sat down on top of the bloody pelt. He gathered the dung into a heap and closed his eyes, reaching for the Force. A holodroid extruded a fiber-optic camera through one of his ventilation holes to peer at him, so he swatted it with his metal pole till it withdrew, then tried again. 

This time he was left to his peace and he relaxed himself by slow degrees, his chilled and overstressed muscles quivering. He needed potassium; he would probably have leg cramps during the night without it, but there was no source. There was only the meat if he could manage to thaw it. Crude protein would keep his brain functioning well and the fat would give him energy and help him stay warm. It looked like a herd beast, nothing that should have been this high in the mountains-- more evidence that it had been left for him to find. 

The Force slid through his fingers, slippery as oil, elusive but there. He stilled his mind, focusing on the soft clamor of the night winds and the settling creaks of the glacier. Deeper, deeper-- a spark. Sunflare warmth answering his call. The scent of smoke, a fragile glow. 

He opened his eyes and carefully husbanded the tiny flame, blowing very softly, feeding it with small fibrous grasses and roots he pulled out of the dung. The dung held plenty of fibrous matter, but did not burn quickly; it caught and smoldered like charred coals, but it made heat. He propped the meat over the small fire, trying to arrange it so that no blood would drip on the fire and extinguish it. Then he lay down, wrapping himself in the long-haired, filthy pelt, and shut his eyes. Some of the meat should be thawed by morning, assuming the fire was not enough to melt the walls of his flimsy shelter. He believed his ventilation would be adequate to keep carbon monoxide from accumulating in his tiny cave and killing him. 

Almost immediately he fell asleep. 

Obi-Wan woke stiff and chilled, his leg muscles knotted and cramped, and had to rub them with his hands before he could struggle upright. The fire was out, the precious fuel exhausted, but the meat had softened. He lifted the haunch, gnawing at it, forcing his mind not to dwell on the slimy, chill texture of the uncooked flesh and the metallic taste of the blood as he made himself nourish his body. He thought instead of sitting at the pleasant table in the quarters he shared with his master at the Temple, warm and clean from washing, eating hot palu with Qui-Gon, no worse worries in his mind than whether he might have been overheard touching himself in the shower. If only he could be back there now, he would be glad of a dull afternoon spent on a Serenity Seeking. It seemed an impossible heaven to him now, a dream rather than a memory. 

He could have it again. He would have it again and he would not chafe at the limitations; he would take anything of his master that he could get and be grateful for it. He would count an ocean of sand and call himself lucky. 

Grey light filtered into his snow cave and razor-sharp air blew in through the ventilation holes. Obi-Wan dragged his fingers through the ashes of the fire and smeared black ash on his cheeks and nose to help his goggles cut the sun-glare, then carefully prodded at the snow that blocked up the exit tube and shoved through it, emerging into the bitter-crisp mountain dawn. Holodroids immediately converged on him, zoom lenses humming and clicking. 

He forced himself to breathe shallowly and slowly, mindful of his delicate lungs, as he gathered his gear and prepared to set out. His legs were shaky and the headache was back, much worse; his stomach roiled and wanted to sick up the meat he'd eaten, but he forced himself to keep it down, his throat burning with bile. The tremors in his hands were worse also. Definitely withdrawal symptoms; his mind and skin itched, dissatisfied and demanding, and he had nothing to give them. 

Obi-Wan tore a strip from the hide and bound his pole to his wrist-- it would not do to drop it and lose it down a crevasse, and he no longer trusted his shaking hands. He knotted the hide around his shoulders and set out, roughly paralleling the course of the glacier, looking for a shortcut down into the next valley. It was still a long way down to the treeline, but at least now he could see individual trees dotting the skirts of the snowfield, then blending into thick clusters of evergreen further below. 

He had walked for nearly two hours when disaster struck; his path blocked by a huge ice-crusted boulder, he ventured out onto the glacier. Despite all his care the snow gave way beneath him. 

Obi-wan tumbled downward, choking back a cry, and his pole lodged on either side of the crevasse, flexing dangerously beneath his weight. 

His eyes flew up to the narrow strip of beast hide, the only thing keeping him from falling into the black, sucking darkness below his feet. Uncured, untanned, it stretched even as he looked up. He bit his lip, swinging abruptly, his left hand latching onto the pole even as the strip of hide pulled free of his knot and his right hand swung loose, his body lurching. The pole shifted, sliding down another foot before it wedged again, bowing deeply under weight it had never been designed to take. 

Obi-Wan struggled to center himself; he would need the Force to escape, but it eluded him. Too much panic, too many drugs-- his mind was a raddled parody of calm, shooting itself panicked, inaccurate messages about vectors and depths and slippage and tensile weight tolerances. 

A tremor wracked him as his left hand began to slip. The holodroids zipped and swarmed, capturing his imminent demise from every possible angle. He cursed, a hiss of breath through cracked lips. Right hand, up, grasp pole. Now he hung from both hands, glancing around desperately for a ledge or a protruding rock, something he could get a purchase on-- 

And saw the holodroids, clustered around him with cameras extruded. He weighed considerably more than Gida, but it was his only chance. 

Obi-Wan released the pole and swung his legs, catching one black carapace between his thighs, curling around it, wrapping his arms around the rounded hull of the droid and clinging for dear life. 

Its repulsorlifts whined and its camera servos rotated, filming him even as he bore it down-- but it accessed an auxiliary power source and recovered, recovered and rose slightly, motors straining. It had just enough thrust to carry him. He snagged his pole as they went by and flipped his body off the droid as it emerged from the hole, adrenaline sharpening his reflexes enough that he stuck the landing, safely away from the jagged crack in the ice. 

He turned, trying to get his bearings, and nearly jumped out of his skin. An arranha sat atop the tumbled boulders that had turned him aside, and a tall blond man stood next to it, looking down at him with a smirk, blue eyes peering out from the depths of a heavy helmet, long yellow ponytail whipping in the wind. His burgundy cloak crackled, streaming out behind him. 

"That was a close one, Jedi. The cats won't like it if you let the ice take you and neither will the bettors." He hopped off the boulder, cat following him, and the whine of a speeder bike receded into the distance. 

Obi-Wan stared after him, blinking; something about the man's thick accent tickled at his brain, which sluggishly circled the problem for a moment and then served up a single word: Djinn. The handlers were Djinn. The hasty impressions he carried from the arena clicked into place-- the men's height, their bearing, their hair. Of course they were. 

Force fuck it-- and he'd been afraid of the _cats._

Obi-Wan Kenobi dissolved into hysterical laughter. 

After a few minutes he rose and cautiously made his way around the outcrop, finding the cat's tracks. He felt sharper in the wake of the adrenaline surge, more alert and in control. The Force was near, so he reached for its calm, letting it soothe the remnants of his close call from his mind. It made sense that the Djinn were animal handlers. Qui-Gon had always been excellent at using the Force to reach out to animals; he attracted strays like a lodestone attracted iron filings. 

Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan's head snapped up and he extended his senses, very slow, very cautious-- and found the faintest whisper of his master somewhere not far away. He was sure of it. It gave him hope and courage, putting heart into him in a way nothing else could. 

Still, it didn't sit well that the arranha had been so close; they must have drawn ahead and repositioned around him while he slept. Somehow he had to sneak ahead of them, increase his speed, and get clear so Qui-Gon could rescue him before Dramacore pulled out all the stops and went for blood. 

He blinked. In front of him, lying half-buried in the snow, waited a piece of hull plating. Cameras whirred and whined, measuring him as he studied it. He took up the plate and tested its curve, looking down along the inclined plane of the land. Another obvious gift from his pursuers, it was still perfect. 

Obi-Wan laughed again, exultant this time. All he had to do was survive and wait for fruition. Qui-Gon was here; the Force would provide. 

Settling the plating on the snow, Obi-Wan climbed aboard and pushed off, using his pole to steer as he skimmed down the slope, sliding rapidly away from the glacial ice. 

The makeshift sled speeded Obi-Wan's progress considerably. Under other circumstances he would have enjoyed the experience of sliding down the mountain. The adrenaline high still lingered, helping stave off drug withdrawal, and the Force sang to him, guiding him around dangerous hummocks and pitfalls. 

The farther he went, the steeper the slope; Obi-Wan sailed over crevices and bounced lightly on the other side, keeping himself upright easily. The treeline was much closer now, and he wondered if he had made it ahead of the arranhar yet. Leaning to the left, he skimmed farther away from the glacier's course and toward a winding meadowland. The air was warming; he was losing altitude rapidly. Here the snow was less powder than ice, so he scraped along, throwing up sparks and accelerating dangerously, so fast the holodroids lagged behind. In no time he was swooping among the outlying trees, throwing sprays of ice particles to either side as he banked and twisted, face tucked into dirty animal fur. 

The trees grew thicker and the slope evened out; his sled slowed and eventually he tumbled over deliberately to stop it and get his bearings. He'd come perhaps two-thirds of the way down the mountain in his mad rush of acceleration; the glacier field where he'd begun the morning was a distant patch of white near the peaks. He could see specks sailing along a mile or so below it, paralleling the glacier-- smooth-running speeder bikes and the surging leaps of arranhar. He was ahead of them then. 

Still feeling the Force's call, Obi-Wan floundered through a drift, clinging to his sled, and found a new valley. Seating himself again, he was off-- at this rate, he'd be out of the snow by noon and nearly to the lowlands by nightfall. 

*****

Qui-Gon scowled to himself, pacing, watching his Djinn brother's speeder bike draw near, Majnun's arranha bounding in its wake. Awakening to find that Majnun had gone out alone at dawn to scout Obi-Wan's progress had not put him in the best temper. 

"He has a few tricks up his sleeve, that one. Found a crevasse the hard way, but didn't need rescuing." Majnun swung down, giving Qui-Gon a curt nod. "It'll make good viewing. I left him a hull plate for snow-skimming; he'll be too smart not to use it. Break camp; we're moving out!" 

Qui-Gon turned to his small shelter tent, touching the button that released its spring. It deflated, rippling in the wind, and he folded it before jamming it into his pack. Both Obi-Wan's lightsaber and his own lay solid against his hip under his snow parka. If he hadn't been weak, he could have beaten Majnun out this morning, found Obi-Wan himself, and had his pa-- the boy call for the Delta Six. But once again his unsettled mind worked against him. After too many nights with next to no sleep he'd succumbed to exhaustion and overslept himself, delaying Obi-Wan's rescue yet again. 

At least he could feel his pada-- Obi-Wan's presence in the Force now; Obi-Wan was managing more connection to it than he had the previous day. But even that was not without worries-- as his abilities returned, he would be harder to catch. Qui-Gon tried to project his presence strongly toward Obi-Wan, to reassure him, but had no idea whether he succeeded. 

The rest of the day proved similarly frustrating. They descended in a series of careful traverses, pausing between each to tend the arranhar. They had not been built for negotiating such harsh, icy terrain, and their paws required constant maintenance so that chunks of ice didn't wedge in between their fingers or pads and cut their feet. 

Qui-Gon glimpsed Obi-Wan several times that morning as he skimmed along atop the snow on his piece of deck plating, swift as a bird, but could not reach his mind. The Force was still dim and erratic around the lad. 

The sled allowed Obi-Wan to take and stretch a respectable lead, and by the time the sun sank low, Kenobi had made it out of the snowfields into the thick fir forests where he could no longer ride his hull plate. 

Majnun stopped the group and beckoned Qui-Gon aside. "Time to ramp it up. The punters are getting bored with this and we need to end the day on a high note." He tilted his head at Maj'lis. "Send the cat after the Jedi. Have it stalk him. Chase him till he wears out. Jata wants some serious flash, so you'll have to let the cat get close enough to play with him, but don't let Maj'lis harm him if you can help it. Not yet, anyway." 

Qui-Gon hesitated. "The crystal works at a distance?" 

"If you can keep your focus and stay on top of the cat's predator instinct it should." Majnun smiled. "And if it doesn't, we'll find out what that boy can really do." 

Qui-Gon nodded, despite misgivings-- if this must be done, he would not have it be done by anyone but him. "Let me check his feet." 

"I'll prepare the holodroids." 

Qui-Gon carefully knelt and checked Maj'lis. He had developed a shallow cut on one paw pad, so Qui-Gon sealed it with bacta gel, wrapping a cloth bandage around the paw and tying it securely. The holodroids whirred overhead; he ignored them, preparing methodically. Maj'lis was tired from the long day of floundering through snow and leaping from drift to drift, but that would just make him easier to manage. 

Qui-Gon fed the beast from their stores of meat, watching him gnaw the joint, rasping meat off the bones with his sharp molars and swallowing the chunks whole. He gave the cat enough to blunt the sharp edge of his hunger but not enough to slow him excessively. 

Majnun and the others lit a fire and pitched their tents. Qui-Gon could smell the sharp tang of woodsmoke. It was not so cold as the previous evening; they had descended significantly, and while the air still had a cruel bite, it did not threaten to freeze the skin off his face. 

He approached the fire and seated himself, cross-legged, to meditate. Reaching out towards Maj'lis with his mind, he sent a picture of Obi-Wan and renewed his promise of freedom. He sent images of a playful chase, of a bored, well-fed housecat toying with a mouse. Then his promise again, as soon as the longer chase was done. 

Maj'lis stretched and yawned, long pink tongue cleaning its jaws, and padded out of the circle of firelight, holodroids trailing after. 

Qui-Gon let his eyes close and sank into the cat's mind, tethered through the control gem. 

*****

_Night coming. Cold, sharp. Stink of humans left behind. No more snow; good ground for feet._

Qui-Gon slid inside the arranha's mind, feeling the ripples of his instructions spread through its consciousness, slow and deep. 

_Stalk. The hunt. Prey? No. No. Not food. Mate?_

Maj'lis took the idea from Qui-Gon's mind before he could disagree. Better that than prey. _...Mate._

The arranha bunched its muscles and sprang onto a fallen log. Velvet sky, stars. The hunt. It dug its claws into the bark of the tree and stretched, marking the place with scent. _Hide. Run. I will find._

It threatened them, any and all who listened, lifting its muzzle and roaring challenge. The forest fell silent before it, a thousand thousand tiny fluttering things gone still. A hundred hundred predators paused, knowing themselves rivaled and beaten. 

Through Qui-Gon, it could feel its target in a way it never had before, flickering on the edge of knowledge. _Mate. Mine._ The mate heard the roar, knew itself sought, and fluttered like the little beasts, the frightened things, the things that ran. _Mine._

It roared again, shredding bark, and launched. 

The forest gave way like silk, flowing around its shoulders, and it stretched low, belly skimming the ground. _Freedom._

Qui-Gon rode, feeling the splash of frigid snow-melt underfoot as Maj'lis bounded across a stream, feeling the spray of moss and earth flying from beneath the arranha's claws as it cornered. Its mind was a red haze of pleasure-- lust, heat, the chase. _Belly full. Find the mate._

He could scent Obi-Wan through its nostrils, the sharp human stink tempered as he recognized it, its timbre transmuting subtly from blood to musk, feeding desire. Maj'lis ran on and on, a low purring growl in its chest, eating ground easily, barely feeling weariness, luxuriating in the draw of breath and the clean spring of paws on yielding ground. 

Obi-Wan's path was crystal clear, the scent so intense he could all but see it, a warm blur in the arranha's mind. It hung in the air, strongest at the ground, focused around the tracks. 

Running now, the mate, trying to evade. The scent more ragged, an acrid edge of fear in it. The trail began to weave through thick tree trunks, under overhanging stones, anything to delay. Seeking shelter, running to ground. Maj'lis glimpsed his quarry through the trees, sat back on his haunches and dragged the scent into himself, lifting his muzzle again and roaring to the rising moon. _Close now. Stalk._ He sank his claws into the soft loam, gliding forward, a noiseless trot instead of a gallop. _Careful. Find._ The human could not outrun him. 

Closer, through the velvet night, leaves brushing flanks. Stalking, silent. Pads in footprints, scent in nostrils, the night alive with subtle motion and light. There, a hanging branch-- the human climbed. 

Maj'lis circled the base of the tree, prowling, snuffling up scent of earth, scent of human. Obi-Wan. Scent of his mate. 

The arranha lifted itself, digging in its claws, and climbed. Branches underfoot, bark between claws. The mate was small and agile; it moved quickly here. _Leap._ One tree to another, Obi-Wan's heartbeat audible in his ears now, loud and quick, strong. His scent smeared across the bark and on the branches, frosting the edges of the leaves along with the pale white moonlight. Maj'lis rumbled in his chest, savoring the satisfaction. _Soon now._

Obi-Wan flashed through the trees, clearly seen in the moonlight, glancing back. A gleam of sweat on his forehead, his eye catching and holding light as he looked back, vanishing as he darted ahead. _Lust._

Bisected, Qui-Gon felt the heat of the fire on his face and the chill of the ground beneath his haunches, only half real-- focus, Maj'lis in his mind; Maj'lis and Obi-Wan and lust. He bit his lip, clinging to both his mind and the cat's, and tasted blood. 

Back to the ground again in an easy drop, then he loped, slow and relaxed, behind his quarry. Content to play before he sprang, he dodged around a trunk and let himself be seen, then doubled back to startle. Springing to the fore, he headed the mate off. A dance, this chase, a game. Advance, retreat. Parry, riposte. 

_Soon._ A stumble, the mate's slim body stretched out against the loam. _Hesitate._ Scrambling upright, running again. _Mine._ Paws in the tracks of his running mate. 

And then the mate dived to ground, beneath the outcrop of a boulder, forcing itself into a small den-cave that lay beneath, desperate, heart and thunder, blood and sweat. 

Maj'lis prowled, paced, claws digging up divots of soil, rumbling pleasure in his chest. _Dig now._

Enough. _No._ Mine. _Mine._

The arranha snarled, claws raking up furrows of loam, slicing through root and deadfall branches. The mate shrank away, pressed up against the back of the den. _Dig out. Mine._

No. NO. 

Sweat popped out on Qui-Gon's forehead as he struggled to impose his will. Finally Maj'lis roared again, venting frustration and anger, and turned away. 

Qui-Gon slumped as the arranha set out to re-trace its tracks, feeling the chill of sweat soaking his clothes. His limbs shook with the effort of control; across the flames, Majnun watched with interest. He held a holo-pad in his hand. 

"Good job. They've got what they need." He stood and offered Qui-Gon a hand up. 

"He'll need to cover a female." Qui-Gon leaned heavily on the hand, lurching to his feet gracelessly, trying to reconcile his mind to two legs rather than four. 

Majnun grinned, wolfish. "And you?" 

Damn it, he was right-- lust still pulsed through Qui-Gon, a white-hot lightning rod at his center. "No females about." Qui-Gon forced himself upright and commanded his legs to steady, ignoring his stubborn flesh. "I'll make do." He sent the promise of a female to the cat and felt Maj'lis speed his progress, resentment blending with eagerness. 

"I'll see to him. Get some sleep; we may need you to do that again." Majnun watched over Qui-Gon as he crawled into his tent, then strode away to tend the cat. 

Qui-Gon could feel Obi-Wan's presence flickering fitfully in the Force; Obi-Wan was agitated and weary but unwilling to remain in the neighborhood of the chase. He loped through the forest swiftly, ignoring the dangers of the night, trying to meditate on the fly and gain control of his fears even as he called the reluctant Force to guide his steps, faltering as often as not, so absorbed he never sensed Qui-Gon's distant scrutiny. 

Qui-Gon sighed, scrubbing his palm over his face, and changed out of his sweat-soaked clothing, huddling around the small thermal lamp that heated the inside of his tent. Outside cats snarled, Maj'lis triumphant as he mounted the female Majnun provided. 

Qui-Gon's lip throbbed where he had bitten it, a sullen pulse in time with his heartbeat, one that echoed in his groin. His body wanted to be touched again; he craved release. If Maj'lis had caught Obi-Wan... he shuddered. It did not bear thinking. 

Qui-Gon had tasted the cat's hunger and it had tasted his own. Over and over, he had seen Obi-Wan mounted and ridden in the holovids, pale body writhing as Obi-Wan was penetrated. The boy, fleeing, had been incredibly beautiful in his fear, his scent intoxicating, the moonlight flashing on his graceful, running body. His braid whipped out behind him, his slender, powerful body pushed to capacity, vulnerable, the nape of his neck white under the moon, begging for a lover's bite. 

Qui-Gon's flesh ached and he circled it with his rough palm, jerking upward harshly. Curse all bodies for the inconvenient, demanding things they were. Noisy, messy, weak things, craving pleasure and resisting discipline. Ignoring sense and insisting on the indulgence of passion, no matter the price. 

He came joylessly into his palm, lip curling in a snarl, and wiped the mess on his sleeping mat. There, it was done, and be damned to it. And be damned to himself, as well, for enjoying what he had just done-- for looking on the fear in Obi-Wan's expression and continuing to pursue, for scenting the terror and the desperation rolling off his pada-- his Obi-Wan-- and lusting for it, for fucking his own fist and coming with that exquisite scent of Obi-Wan's terror in his nostrils, that intoxicating taste of Obi-Wan's desperation on his tongue. 

He curled up miserably and tried to fall asleep. 

*****

By morning Obi-Wan had mastered his fears, but he didn't slow down, winding his way down along the shoulders of the mountains. The firs were behind him now and he walked amid deciduous trees, their branches winter-bare. He picked his way down a tumbled trail of broken stone, mossy rocks the size of his head rolling underfoot and threatening to twist his ankles. He was too tired, too hazy to find the Force behind the piercing headache and the weariness, so he moved carefully along the half-imagined path down toward the grasslands. 

That had been a near thing; if not for the den, the beast would have had him. It could have anyway. It had played with him like a cat with a mouse, running him for pleasure rather than purpose, ultimately sparing him to be more sport for another day. It had been just like another porno scene, playing for the cameras to bring the audience off. 

Today would be worse; he would pass the midpoint of his journey and approach the city. The cat would be back, perhaps with more. What in the world could be delaying Qui-Gon? Couldn't his master sense his whereabouts? Perhaps something had happened to him; Obi-Wan couldn't be sure. The Force was muddy and unpredictable, as likely to skitter away from his touch as to flow through him when he reached for it-- sometimes cool and welcoming in his mind, sometimes aloof and untouchable, sometimes even tinged with darkness. 

He followed the curl of a wide horse-shoe ridge, padding quietly through a carpet of crumbling leaves, looking for an easy way down. He carried a stout wooden staff that he'd found lying in a half-choked stream, but even a staff wouldn't help him down a sheer cliff. Down the throat of each cove ran a tumbling stream. He'd considered following a few, but so far he'd rejected them. Water sought the quickest path downhill, but that path usually wasn't easy. The snowmelt was frigid and each stream bed was steep, punctuated with waterfalls and infested with thousands of stones and boulders, treacherous, some still glazed with ice. 

A bluish haze hung over the land-- water vapor and a faint hint of pollution near the city. This was an animal track, perhaps made by predators, but it was the easiest going Obi-Wan had encountered for some time, so he stuck with it. He kept moving one foot after the other, his weary mind half-dozing. Blue spring flowers lined the walkway, so deep a blue they were nearly violet, almost the shade of Qui-Gon's eyes when his master was at peace. Their delicate, neatly furled blossom tubes stretched up toward the sunlight. This would be a good place to meditate, if only he dared slow down-- but he was already moving too slowly, delaying his descent into the grasslands for no good reason, hoping for a trail that wasn't there. 

The next time the trail switched back he left it, descending through a tricky maze of jagged rock outcrops, sometimes using tree branches to swing himself down, bloodying his hands on the harsh stones. The cats would come, he knew, sooner or later. 

_Master, where are you?_

There was no answer, his damaged sense of the Force remote and eerily silent. Obi-Wan squared his jaw. He was Jedi; he could save himself. 

Patiently he kept moving: forward and down. Maybe he wasn't thinking clearly enough, expecting rescue instead of taking action on his own behalf, waiting for the Force to return to him before he acted. At his current pace it would take another day or two to reach the city-- and he wanted to, needed to; it was his best chance of freeing Gida. 

Without the Force to enhance his speed he needed mechanical help. One of the Djinn's speeder bikes, possibly? 

He turned the idea over in his head, considering. They would not expect him to double back-- unless he was wearing a tracker. That seemed likely. But they had approached him before. Perhaps if he faked being in trouble? The cat had let him escape and it was a long way to the city-- a long way, a lot of drama, and a lot of advertising still to sell. It seemed a reasonable enough risk. 

He cautiously extended his senses, coaxing tendrils of Force into his grasp. Yes, he was being watched-- a man stood just on the point of the ridge where he'd descended. A man and a cat watched there, hanging just far enough back that he wouldn't see them and startle. 

Obi-Wan scrambled up onto an enormous granite outcrop to scout the horizon. He walked along it for a few moments, his silhouette prominent against the sky, then crumpled, pretending to roll his ankle. He lay where he fell, his staff clattering to the rock a span from his outstretched hand, his foot neatly wedged into a crack in the stone. He scrabbled against the rock as if struggling to rise, then subsided again. 

A few moments passed while he lay panting. Sure enough he could hear the engine of a speeder, the harsh mechanical noise swelling. He grasped a stone with one hand and his ankle in the other, remembering the toothy snarl of the arranha, hoping that he was right and they didn't want to be rid of him just yet. 

It was the blond man again. Some sort of leader? The man's cat loped easily after the speeder. He banked in and parked, looking down at Obi-Wan with amusement stretching his lips. 

"Such a disappointment you are, Jedi. Broken that ankle or just twisted it?" 

"I don't know." Obi-Wan made a show of cringing away. The holodroids flitted about busily. 

The man sat on his speeder bike, considering Obi-Wan for a long moment. "Blasters are no good against you lot," he said at length. "So you'll have to pardon me for using the cat instead." 

The arranha padded forward, its muzzle wrinkling as it caught Obi-Wan's scent. It seemed smaller than the one he had faced last night. Maybe this wasn't the leader after all, not the same shadowy figure he had faced across the arena before the chase began, the one whose eyes had pierced him so keenly. 

The cat stepped delicately over Obi-Wan's body, its claws scraping a warning that made him shudder, and lay down an arm's length from him, paws tamped, ready to launch at an instant's notice. Yellow-green eyes glared at him, feral with warning. 

Obi-Wan reached for the Force as the man dismounted his speeder bike. He nearly sobbed with relief when it accepted him. It was not strong, waxing and waning with the pounding of the headache in his temples, but he would not need much. Just a little, just at the right moment. 

The blond man approached cautiously and bent over, reaching for Obi-Wan's boot. As his balance shifted, Obi-Wan lashed out with the Force, _shoving_ as hard as he could, summoning his staff and cracking the man across his broad back as hard as possible for good measure. The Djinn fell forward, pitching across him, tangling with the cat. Obi-Wan was already rolling and leaping for the speeder bike, snatching the handlebars and flinging a leg over the seat as the man and the cat separated and the cat leaped for him, all lightning reflex and liquid muscle. 

Its claws caught the exhaust manifold as Obi-Wan gunned the throttle and screamed off the boulder. He stabbed it in the chest with his staff and the bike slewed violently to one side, but the cat fell away with a shriek of claws on metal, and Obi-Wan corrected his trajectory, managing not to crash as he shot out over the tree canopy, dropping down toward the narrow fold of valley that led to the plains. 

Slowly Majnun got up, dusting off his hands, making a face at the bloody scuffs on his palms. 

_"Damnú ort, streachailt leathair Jedi striapach!"_ he spat, shifting his shoulders painfully and reached for his comlink. 

*****

Qui-Gon's commlink crackled, a hail from Majnun. "Ki-Gün, come down. The little bastard tricked me and took my bike." 

Qui-Gon felt his lips curve upward, unable to suppress a hot flare of pride in his apprentice. "Right away," he responded, banking into his turn. _And it serves you right for running point._ He knew Majnun was only trying to protect his kinsmen at some considerable risk to himself, but if Qui-Gon had been able to convince Majnun to let him run point instead, he might have reached Obi-Wan himself and rescued him by now. 

Or maybe not. His efforts to reach Obi-Wan were getting nowhere, opportunities never ripening, chances never coming, until it felt as if he were toiling uphill in shifting sands. The Force, it seemed, intended for Obi-Wan to reach the city. 

Qui-Gon came up alongside Majnun and his arranha, a male called So'lis. "You don't seem much the worse for wear." 

"He wasn't interested in killing." Majnun hissed between his teeth, stretching his shoulders gingerly, then picking a curl of torn skin off the heel of his palm. "He only wanted the bike. Now our plans will have to change. It won't take him another day to finish the course on the bike. We'll have to go after him with all we've got." 

"The cats can pace a bike?" Qui-Gon inquired neutrally. 

"For a time, if they must. And I have a few tricks up my sleeve." Majnun grinned, predatory. "None of the runners have ever stolen a bike before, but that doesn't mean I wasn't ready for someone to try. I have a slave circuit set on that bike, and I'll have it strand him doing circles in the fields outside the city gate, if need be. I already cut his throttle to 50%. We'll catch him. He didn't sleep last night and we won't let him rest tonight, either." Majnun's grin deepened. "And something else he doesn't know-- his cocktail's wearing off. Smart money says he'll be a wreck by nightfall, Jedi or no." 

"Cocktail?" Qui-Gon's interest sharpened even as his heart sank. 

"The tranks. They dose the fighters with all kinds of psychoactives: hyper-benzos and the like, plus a hell of an aphro. It keeps them quiet on the transports and helps the select few stay sane while the keepers film their pornos. But when the fighters go in the ring, we don't want them dopey and agreeable, so the keepers cut the trank dose to nil. After a couple of days the drugs work out of their systems. It makes them erratic and unpredictable, and that's good holovision. You can always tell when the drugs start to go. That Jedi was sweating like a pig; it's one of the first signs." 

He vaulted over the saddle, settling behind Qui-Gon. "He went that way, down toward the plains." Majnun tilted his head sharply. "We'll close in around him tonight, get some good video, and take him just after dawn before he can make the outskirts." He lifted the comlink, broadcasting to their comrades as Qui-Gon drove them over the edge. "Fall in!" 

*****

Obi-Wan's ears popped as he descended on his stolen speeder bike, sending a spike of pain through the center of his skull. He idled at the base of the ridge, glancing back up the boulder he'd just departed. Now there were two of the Djinn standing there, and two cats, one of them the big one. The sun glinted off the men's metal helmets. Squinting, he could just make out the Djinn he'd tricked climbing aboard the second man's speeder bike. Then the two jetted over the edge and down into the winding valley he'd just followed, leaving their cats to follow as best they could. 

Enough dawdling. 

Obi-Wan gunned the bike, setting out through the low scrub toward the grassland. It wasn't the best bike he'd ever ridden. He wished in vain for a day or two and the right tools to tune up the engine, but it was still much faster than going on foot. 

This was a good thing, and also a problem. Judging by the smudge of pollution far out on the plain, he thought he could make the city midway through the following day if he didn't stop and if the bike's power cell held out. 

That meant his pursuers weren't going to keep on pulling their punches. The thought sent a needle of icy fear through him, slicing through his guts, and brought a film of sweat onto his face. 

Now that the adrenaline of the theft was ebbing, Obi-Wan realized he felt mildly nauseated and dizzy. Not enough sleep, that was it. It would simply have to wait. 

He settled his bike into a declivity where a stream fed through the plains and opened the throttle as far as it would go. 

An hour later he knew he was in trouble. Cramps seized his stomach, forcing him to halt. Closing his eyes against the pain, Obi-Wan lay face-down over the seat of the bike, dry-retching into the stream. It was the drugs. It had to be. The symptoms were classic: headache, dizziness, nausea, and tremors meant withdrawal from psychotropics. He forced himself upright on shuddering forearms, scowling at the inevitable holodroids. It was going to get worse before it got better. 

Gasping and wiping his mouth, Obi-Wan took a moment to survey his surroundings. It was hard to see any progress; all around him lay sprawling meadows of tawny green, young grass rolling in the breeze, dotted with white flowers. If the lazy ripple of the moving stream hadn't told him otherwise he would have thought the valley was convex, a shallow bowl reaching up to the horizon on all sides with him in its low center. 

But that wasn't what worried him most; he knew he was moving, and following the stream ensured he wasn't going in circles. What worried him was the weather. The sun had passed its zenith and in the heat of the afternoon, cumulus clouds had begun to mass on the horizon, drifting up against the tall mountains and hanging there, gleaming arc-white in the too-bright radiance of the white dwarf sun. He hoped they would hold off, but the plains were a heat sink, absorbing the sunlight and pumping moisture up into the atmosphere. It looked like an ugly night coming, and he could only hope the cats hated water. 

He took a few handfuls of water from the stream, rinsed his mouth, spat out the sour taste of vomit, and drank. 

He had to keep moving. 

He forced himself back onto the bike and pushed forward, running the engine full out. The top speed was much slower than the bike should have been capable of. The Djinn must have sabotaged it somehow. 

He shivered, remembering the man's cold blue eyes, so like and unlike his master's. The Djinn and the cats would spend the afternoon overtaking his crippled bike. Tonight they would make their move. Tonight, after he lost the sun. He could remember the fetid breath of the big cat that ran him to ground in the forest and the fiery green gleam of its eyes. If he looked to one side he might see the cats again, peering at him through the grass. He knew they were there; he knew it in his bones. 

The Force skittered away from him like a droplet of water across hot metal when he tried to locate them. 

The land dropped gradually. His stream joined several others, as he followed it, growing wider and deeper. The natural grasslands abruptly ended and a checkerboard of cultivated grain fields took their place. That was an advantage. The small river had been ditched to pass between the fields, and its channel ran straight toward the city now, interrupted infrequently by culverts where bridges had been constructed to allow harvesting machinery to cross. He could follow the stream directly most of the time, soaring only a few inches above the water, which cut down on turbulence and spared his queasy stomach. 

Slowly the sun set, blazing straight into Obi-Wan's eyes, which set off fireburst explosions of pain in his already aching head. He wished he hadn't abandoned his goggles when he left the snow-fields, but the harsh rays didn't last long. The clouds were sweeping in. They soon eclipsed the sun, bringing premature shadows across the land. He veered up to avoid a bridge and caught sight of a cat, pacing him easily on his left, leaping across a gully that fed water into the channel where he flew. 

Obi-Wan grimaced and leaned farther forward, streamlining his body and willing power into the bike, which stubbornly chugged along exactly as before, ignoring his desperation. 

Wind swept in from his left, buffeting the bike and silvering the grain, riffling the surface of the water. He could see rain smudging the horizon and a yellow-white flare of lightning stabbed into the ground. The rumble of thunder that followed was a distant but distinct threat. 

When the thunder didn't entirely fade away, he realized he was also hearing the distant swelling throb of a heavy engine. Looking over his shoulder, Obi-Wan spotted two troop transports lumbering their way down from the mountains. It would be foolish to hope those had no interest in him. Doubtless they were loaded with armed Dramacore muscle, all committed to seeing that their prize Jedi wouldn't make it across the finish line. The blond Djinn might think blasters were no good against a Jedi, but Obi-Wan was a Jedi without his lightsaber-- and without the Force. He'd be an easy mark. 

Thunder erupted again, much closer overhead, an ear-shattering cacophony that sent shockwave turbulence shuddering through Obi-Wan, nearly unseating him. He hastily turned his face forward. The sun flared out from beneath the clouds as it sank below the horizon, feathering the undersides of the clouds with shades of white and blue-purple. His hands began to jerk, cramping on the handlebars. 

A cat snarled, making him flinch. This one was on his right; they were probably all around him now. There was nowhere to hide in this country. There wouldn't be any convenient animal dens this time. He might shelter in a culvert, but if he did, he'd only pin himself down. He might as well stand still right out in the open and let the cats shred him as imprison himself in a dark hole to wait for an inevitable man with a blaster. 

Losing light fast, Obi-Wan tilted the bike up and leveled off several feet over the water, ensuring that he wouldn't miss any raised bridges. Sure enough, he could see the cats, a wedge of them loping along, spaced out around him like sentries, biding their time. The wind was cold and wet and the grain hissed, lying flat against the land. A blue flare of lightning struck perhaps a kilometer away and the first drops of rain stung his face. 

It occurred to him that this was a race he couldn't win. 

If it were the will of the Force, he would honor the Jedi and his master by refusing to give up. Dramacore would never take him back to the arena or to that filthy holo studio. Obi-Wan Kenobi would die first-- die fighting for his freedom. 

Thunder cracked the sky open and rain poured down in a deluge, drenching him to the skin. 

*****

Qu-Gon split his concentration between the speeder bike and Maj'lis, using the cat's eyes. Obi-Wan was faltering as night approached, just as Majnun had predicted. And yet the Force was singing to Qui-Gon, singing within him, currents leading him forward. There was a path, and Qui-Gon urged the arranha nearest Obi-Wan to show itself, herding Obi-Wan subtly to keep him near the river as Qui-Gon's intuition whispered was right. 

Majnun had summoned troop transports to assist in the final takedown, a most unwelcome tactical stroke. As lightning flashed, Qui-Gon could see the dull steel noses of the ships plowing through the grain, running lights piercing the gloom. The wind was rising, driving a spatter of rain before it, and the last rays of the sun stretched horizontally beneath the clouds, illuminating the land with an eerie violet light. 

The Force pulsated with power, savage energies running before the storm. The lightning flickered and stabbed into the fields; the atmosphere was so charged with cations that Qui-Gon's hair wanted to stand on end. The cats could sense it too, their ears flat against their skulls, their bellies pressed near the ground as they ran. 

The last rays of the sun went out as rain began to cascade from the heavens, driven nearly sideways by the strength of the wind. Qui-Gon reached out, sensing the different beings around him-- the cats and the Djinn all drawing in tighter around Obi-Wan as he slowed. Qui-Gon could feel his apprentice clearly; Obi-Wan's energy was ebbing as the withdrawal symptoms worsened. 

Holodroids buzzed around them all, repulsor-fields protecting their delicate recording equipment. They wouldn't get good video with this much rain obscuring the view, and that was just as well for what Qui-Gon must do. 

The crux drew nearer now, the Force whispering urgency to him. Majnun drove his speeder bike up next to Qui-Gon's, shouting to be heard over the roar of the rain and wind. 

"Can you control Maj'lis enough to keep the Jedi alive or should I send So'lis instead?" 

"I can control him," Qui-Gon affirmed. 

"Good; he's the most photogenic. We need to get something stellar-- if you can, have the cat knock him off the bike, slice him up a bit. The Jedi should escape and be recaptured a few times. Then we'll let him run again and we'll send them all after him, keep him going in circles till sunup, and close the gap at dawn. I've ordered reinforcements to make sure he doesn't slip through; he's not likely to cause trouble, but he is Jedi." 

Qui-Gon nodded curtly. "I'll do what I can." The Force's call was urgent now, pressing at Qui-Gon, fingers of darkness and light twining around him, the Living Force supercharged with the power of the plasma storm, the Unifying Force battering him with a thousand conflicting messages-- warnings, suggestions, fears, lusts. 

Qui-Gon kicked the accelerator of his bike and reached out to Maj'lis, seeing his padawan through the cat's eyes. _Leap._

The cat soared, arcing gracefully over the canal where Obi-Wan rode, and Obi-Wan shied, sending the bike into a skid. He toppled off it into the canal. He came up sputtering and Maj'lis roared, remembering Obi-Wan's scent and challenging him. 

Lightning stabbed red-white flame into the dim, freezing Obi-Wan's terrified face for the cameras. Qui-Gon anchored himself deep in the cat's mind. _You will not harm him._

The cat roared again, stalking up and down the bank. Obi-Wan began to scramble out and hesitated, calculating whether the arranha would enter the water for him. His hands were shaking badly and Qui-Gon could feel his desperate attempts and failures to harness the Force, which had closed to him again. 

_Trust in me,_ Qui-Gon sent, knowing he would not be heard. He heeled his bike over, skidding to a stop, and dismounted. 

Obi-Wan saw him and quailed away-- Qui-Gon could hear his mind and knew he saw only a faceless Djinn, features hidden inside the helmet, the Dramacore cloak a savage banner in the strobe-flare of the lightning, Qui-Gon's voice lost under the punishing percussion of the thunder. Obi-Wan struggled to his feet and began to retreat, stepping backward in the muddy water until he fell and his courage broke; he floundered away, half-swimming, half-crawling. 

The sight of his tormented padawan shrinking from him in terror of his life overwhelmed the final pangs of Qui-Gon's conscience. Something broke inside him: a dam crumbled, releasing fury, pain, and lust. Lust for vengeance, lust for justice, lust for flesh-- there was no longer a difference to him. These men had brought judgment upon themselves. They would pay. 

He turned away from Obi-Wan with deliberate grace. Ignoring the hail that cannoned down from the sky, stinging like hornets wherever it struck him, Qui-Gon began. 

Closing his eyes, Qui-Gon raised his hands to the sky, reaching into the ionized atmosphere, and pulled its seething power to himself. A coronal discharge formed around his palms, glimmering green, clothing his arms in flame. He took as much as he could hold, then dug even deeper-- letting the anger consume him, letting his guilt and his pain and his rage swell as his hands filled with lightning. Green flares arced between his outstretched fingers, crawling over his skin, the power building-- until he struck. 

Sizzle and flare. The lightning skittered over the transports, arcing over the metal plates and through the insulated walls, running to ground. Men screamed, caught in the arcs, their limbs jerking and flailing, hair and armor smoking. Blaster power packs exploded and engines melted. Deafening concussions drowned out the electric crackle of power, blending with the punishing shockwaves of thunder. The lightning slammed down again, again, and again, until nothing moved and nothing screamed. The only sound from the transports was the crackling of flames. 

The strikes ceased, leaving Qui-Gon's retinas seared with jagged white afterimages, his fingertips smoking, his whole body quivering with dark exultation, indifferent to the suffering he had caused-- these men had harmed his Obi-Wan, had wanted to kill him. They would do so no more. 

He strode forward, his feet pulling raw power out of the earth, his hands snaring the sky. Lightning stabbed once more, the thunder so powerful it shuddered his bones. Cats quailed, their tails drooping on the ground, and they skulked in circles, growling with agitation, their slitted eyes blazing. Again the lightning struck and metal glowed and fused. The Djinn threw themselves off their speeder bikes and onto the earth, desperate to shelter from the storm's fury. Qui-Gon spun away from the transports and lashed out at the bikes as well. Power cells exploded, brief novas that rivaled the lightning. Holodroids chittered and shrieked as liquid fire shot from his fingertips to wreathe them. They jetted across the sky like shooting stars before winking out, plowing burned channels and craters in the ground. 

Qui-Gon lowered his hands and was still. 

Every cell of him crackled, supercharged with power; his muscles quivered with it. He could feel the electricity buzzing in him, violent and seeking destruction. If given nowhere else to go, it would turn inward. 

Instinctively he sank to one knee and plunged his fingers into the mud, shoving the power out of him, harmless, into the ground-- out and out and out, all the fury, all the wrath, until he quivered with exhaustion, until he was himself again, until he raised his head and looked at the ruined transports and the twisted, scorched bodies of the men he had destroyed, smoking and steaming in the pouring rain. 

He tasted salt on his lips and only then realized he was weeping. 

The Djinn lay scattered, shaken but unharmed, save for a few who had taken minor burns or wounds from shrapnel flung by the exploding engine cells. Superficial, unimportant. They were his kin. He wondered if that was why he had chosen to spare them. 

The cats-- 

Qui-Gon stiffened, fists clenching. The Djinn had lost their hold over the cats. Even he had forgotten Maj'lis in the heat of the moment-- and the cats, freed, had returned to their instincts. They gathered in the rain, a rough circle around their leader, and turned their glowing eyes on the helpless human in the ditch, obeying Maj'lis, who had but one thought, one instinct left in his mind after the terror of the lightnings: _The hunt. The prey._

Qui-Gon flung himself back toward the ditch just in time to see Maj'lis stalk forward, dipping one clawed paw into the water but then removing it, flicking it with distaste and backing away. The cat's lips peeled back from its fangs as it snarled with anger. The rain still roared down, feeding the stream and flooding it. The water surged and rose, brown and turbulent; even as Qui-Gon reached out toward Obi-Wan the current toppled the young man, dragging his feet out from under him, and swept him away. 

Maj'lis growled and pursued, loping along the channel. Qui-Gon sprinted behind, trying to push away exhaustion and claim a center that no longer existed, to achieve enough control to levitate Obi-Wan free without harming him-- 

\--But he was too late. Obi-Wan was swept into a culvert, down a long, tumbling incline that splashed out into a wide, dark river. 

Qui-Gon reached for the gem Maj'lis wore, and the cat hesitated, looking over its shoulder, the pride waiting, poised, for a signal to pursue their prey. Qui-Gon forced himself to accelerate, bounding up to the cat and leaping onto its back. Maj'lis roared, digging powerful claws into the matted tangle of earth and roots at the lip of the hill. One by one the cats dove over its top and raced down toward the river below. There was no sign of Obi-Wan other than the spark of the young man's presence in the Force, sweeping along the current well downstream. 

Without a speeder bike there was no way to cross the river; Qui-Gon would have to find the nearest bridge and then pick up Obi-Wan's trail later, in the city. He would have had to anyway, with the cats in tow. He checked his map and sighing, turned Maj'lis upstream. 

The cat had only gone a few paces when a flicker of natural lightning revealed a silhouette on the horizon-- more than one, familiar. Majnun was nothing if not a master of his men. 

Qui-Gon nudged Maj'lis toward the crest of the hill again, following a whisper from the Force, and rode toward the other Djinn, who squinted up at him through the pelting rain. 

"Ki-Gün, you survived." Majnun's eyes brightened as they swept along the pack. "I've never seen such lightning. I suppose that's what you risk if you go out on a flat plain with so much metal and encounter a plasma storm. But I would have thought the transports were insulated against lightning strikes." A frown clouded his brow as he considered. "If the Jedi was able to call lightning against us, he may not be as damaged as I'd hoped." 

"Jedi are unpredictable," Qui-Gon equivocated, his very skin itching with the need to be off. 

Majnun nodded, still working through his plans. "Several of us are injured and none of our electronics function. The bikes are slag and the transports are done as well. I don't think So'lis could carry me far; it's fortunate you can master Maj'lis as you do. Will you take up the chase?" 

"I don't need electronics and I'm already on the Jedi's trail," Qui-Gon assured him. "He took shelter in the river, safe from the cats." 

"There's a bridge just upstream. If you go quickly you should make the outskirts before dawn. He'll have to leave the river, and then you'll have him." 

"Yes. If the cats and I can beat him to the city, we can complete our mission." 

"Be careful, _mo dheartháir."_ Majnun laid a cautionary hand against Qui-Gon's boot. "The Company will send help. I'll be along as soon as I may."

Qui-Gon nodded, nudging Maj'lis with his heels, and the pride leaped away, stretching out to run with bellies low to the ground. 

He nearly missed the bridge, which had no guardrail or curb, but the Force warned him in time and the cats raced over it with Maj'lis in the lead, spreading out again as they emerged onto the highway that led into the city. A handful of surviving holodroids settled in behind them, but he had no time to deal with them; let Dramacore film this, then, and be damned. 

The city skyline rose steadily from the horizon, and Qui-Gon knew the journey would be quickly accomplished. Now for the next stage of his plan. 

Trusting in Maj'lis, Qui-Gon shut his eyes, reaching for the Force-sensitive gems in each of the cats' collars. There were fifteen with him, and the rest wandered on the plains as their Djinn masters sought to recapture them. He dismissed the stragglers, focusing on those who hunted with him. There were too many to control; all were focused in on the blood lust of the chase, the need to capture their quarry. 

Once again, the Force left him no choice. 

Qui-Gon drew deliberately on his anger, his pain, his uncertainty and his fear. He felt power swell in him, boiling darkly. He extended it to the cats. If he could not quell their lust he would direct it, and his own, as profitably as he might. 

One by one they acknowledged him, accepted him, and he rode within them, each cat an extension of his will, the heady thrill of it making him laugh. 

Obi-Wan was near. He could feel it clearly, and as he did, Maj'lis roared. The flare of fear from his apprentice tasted sweet and bitter all at once. Very well. Let Obi-Wan run, and perhaps they would both stay ahead of Dramacore until the end. 

He called to the cats and they responded, angling their course to fall in behind Obi-Wan as he fled toward the finish. 

*****

Obi-Wan tumbled and rolled down the drainage culvert, flashing lights starting to appear before his eyes, lungs screaming for oxygen-- but then he was free, splashing down into a deep, swift current, no longer trapped. He floundered upward, sodden clothes dragging him down, boots full of water. He kicked them off and struggled out of the clinging layers, letting them sink, then kicked upward. Lungs screaming, he broke the surface at last, sputtering and spitting muddy water. 

The sky still flared and strobed, though less frequently now, the thunder distinct, not one prolonged, unending clash. The irrigation canal had dumped him into a river. As his vision cleared, the bright seared afterimages subsiding, he could make out the skyline of the city, misty and smudged with rain or picked out in stark white and black shadow from the lightning pulses. 

That had been a hell of a storm, like nothing he'd ever seen. He could almost believe it had been sent by the Force to scatter the cats and the men who menaced him and to bring the flood to sweep him to safety-- or it might just have been a hallucination from drug withdrawal. 

He didn't care; he was away from the cats and the current was pushing him rapidly toward the city. He might actually have a chance, now, if the storm had scattered the pursuit adequately. 

He turned on his belly and began a lazy breast-stroke, cooperating with the current, keeping his chin above water and watching the banks slide by. His mind felt thick and sludgy,but he knew he needed a plan, a better one than just "get to the city center." It would help if he had some knowledge of the area-- it would help even more than that if he could touch the Force-- but he couldn't even feel the Force now through the headache pounding in his skull and the chill that permeated every part of him. 

Luckily the river channel was smooth and deep and there were no snags or outcrops to impede Obi-Wan's progress. By the time the sky began to turn grey he was within the outskirts of the city, and structures were slipping by, ghostly grey in the mist that rose from the ground and the surface of the water. 

He was chilled to the bone, chilled and shivering; it took him a long time to paddle to the bank,and longer still until he found an eddy that brought him to a narrow beach where he could leave the water and climb up the bank. A familiar hum settled in at his shoulder and he looked up to find a holodroid hovering overhead, filming him; he scooped up a stone and threw it, but the thing only darted aside and returned immediately. 

Giving up on it, Obi-Wan left the riverside behind, managing a shambling trot. He needed dry clothes and shoes; his hands trembled uncontrollably and he could barely walk, stumbling along and trying to keep to alleys and empty streets. At least there were no cats, though he kept jumping at shadows, glancing behind himself nervously, always afraid one would pop up over his shoulder. 

He stole some ragged breeches and a heavy woolen shirt off a wash-line and dressed himself, tucking his hands into his armpits. His heartbeat was not steady, faltering and racing, and his muscles felt as though he had been stretched on a rack, but he could feel a faint ghost of the Force and he coaxed it toward him, tentative. It yielded up a direction to him, a sense of where he should go. 

It would be over soon, one way or the other. 

He was trotting along a back alley when he heard the arranha's roar, its snarling cry clutching his heart with terror. No. So close. 

He could not beat it, but he would not give up. 

Obi-Wan gathered the last of his strength and began to run. The dream had him; he stumbled through crowds and over shattered glass, up stairways and down alleys, across avenues where traffic skidded to a halt, barely missing him. He could see the cats if he looked behind, but he did not dare slow; the city center was ahead, filled with people. He could almost feel the cats' hot breath on his heels. Their paws thumped softly but implacably on the pavement behind him. His skin crawled as he waited for the leader to spring, waited for its claws-- 

But it did not, not even when he stumbled around the final corner, nearly sprawling on his face, and a thousand startled faces waited, staring at him with eyes wide, as he sprinted past them. He accelerated, running so hard he though his heart might burst, and he stumbled across the finish line even as the first blaster-fire erupted, tracing him, knocking fragments out of the pavement to sting his heels. The next shot would strike, if the cat did not-- 

But the cat was on him, driving him to the ground. He struck with a thud, the last of his breath forced from his lungs. As he fell, at last Obi-Wan heard the blessedly unmistakable snap-hiss of lightsabers-- first one, then another. His eyes flew open and he stared straight up into the face of the snarling cat; it stood over him, growling, its claws enclosing his arms, preventing him from rising, but it did not strike. 

Blasters whined, and past the bulk of the cat lightsabers flared, green and blue-- in the hands of a Djinn. Suddenly, inescapably, he realized it was Qui-Gon wearing the livery of a cat handler. The same Djinn Obi-Wan had seen in the storm, he realized with shock. 

Qui-Gon had a lightsaber in each hand, moving as Obi-Wan had never seen him, catching each bolt and snapping it back toward the shooters with murderous efficiency, his eyes blazing behind his helmet as he whirled and dived, flipping over one bolt to intercept another, striding forward implacably past Obi-Wan, his stare fixed on the reviewing stand at the end of the square, its intensity promising death. 

Behind him came the cats, fanning out against the crowd, snarling and launching; people screamed and began to scatter, surging mindlessly toward any outlet. 

The cats targeted and sprang, bringing down the sharpshooters one by one as Qui-gon danced and spun in the midst of a whirlwind of blades, advancing on his goal. 

"Shoot him!" That terrified squeal was Jata's voice, unmistakable, but Qui-Gon continued, stalking forward implacably, as feral as the cats themselves, blades deflecting a hail of fire seemingly without effort. He was awash in darkness, so intense Obi-Wan could see it even without sensing the Force-- the tense, murderous energy owned his master. 

"Master," Obi-Wan gasped, anguished, struggling to breathe; the cat hunkered down and covered his body with its own, its weight constricting his chest, but no blaster bolts came. The shooters were focused on more urgent things now-- the blazing vision of doom who spun and pirouetted and kept moving forward, the scything flurry of his lightsabers a brilliant extension of dark purpose. 

Guards abandoned their weapons and fled but Qui-Gon moved faster; his sabers flashed with deadly precision, and they cut the supports of the grandstand, which toppled, spilling screaming Dramacore personnel and dignitaries onto the ground. 

A scream, cut short-- Obi-Wan watched Jata's head fall and roll on the ground, eyes and mouth still opened for his final cry of terror, but his master did not stop. The deadly dance continued and Obi-Wan realized the Dramacore uniform had become a death mark as his master's blades dipped and lunged with furious accuracy. Qui-Gon flipped, and when he landed he blocked the nearest egress; more people fell, and still more, and still Qui-Gon's momentum built, his blazing eyes filled with unquenchable hate for those he fought. 

"Master!" Obi-Wan finally managed to cry out loudly enough to be heard-- these were not the ones who had hurt him; these were clerks and secretaries, unarmed, innocent men and women who struggled to feed their families. 

"Qui-Gon Jinn." A woman's voice rang out, and a female Jedi Obi-Wan did not know leaped over the crowd to land before him, her yellow blade igniting, her small padawan right behind her, drawing his own blade. "You are under arrest. Stop in the name of the Jedi Council!" 

The cat growled and rose, stepping over Obi-Wan, who scrambled to his knees, too exhausted and shaky to stand. Gida appeared, struggling towards him, stumbling over bodies. "Obi!" 

He caught her as she fell to embrace him, but he only had eyes for his master. Qui-Gon stood still, lightsabers blazing, staring at his single Jedi opponent while the last of the Dramacore employees and spectators took to their heels and scrambled away in any direction they could, vanishing down streets and alleys. 

The arranhar yowled, stalking the Jedi and her padawan, tamping down their haunches, prepared to spring. A moment of tension stretched as the cats' tails lashed and their muscles quivered-- but then Qui-Gon released the blades and they retracted. Qui-Gon's body relaxed and he stood upright, abandoning his battle stance. That cats sat down, purpose ebbing from their bodies. 

The Jedi woman reached and Qui-Gon handed over a lightsaber-- only one, pointedly clipping the other to his belt-- and at last, his eyes searched and found Obi-Wan. He closed them, drawing a ragged breath, and the rest of his tension flowed away. 

He folded his arms beneath his burgundy cloak and stood up straight, expression draining out of his features, leaving a neutral mask. 

"The cats are dangerous," he stated flatly. "I may not be able to control them. Take Obi-Wan to safety. He will require healing that I cannot provide." 

"You're coming with me to Coruscant." The woman ignored Qui-Gon's words and Obi-Wan realized she was trying to push his master with her mind, trying to use the Force to make her command assume reality. "The Council must know what you have done here." 

"You're mistaken." Qui-Gon's eyes never returned to Obi-Wan. "I'm taking the cats off-world. To hell with the Council." He stepped aside, eyes scanning the wreckage, and bent to take up a small case that lay next to Jata's headless corpse. 

Obi-Wan blinked and accepted Gida's help; her shoulder supported him as he rose and he stepped forward on bleeding feet, ignoring the pain from the glass embedded in the soles. 

"Master!" He clearly heard his own confusion and the entreaty, but was powerless to retain his dignity. 

"No longer, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon looked to him at last. His face was impassive, but his eyes filled with infinite sadness. 

"No." Obi-Wan felt dizziness sway him, and he leaned heavily on Gida. "I don't know what's happened, but--" 

"Hush." Qui-Gon stepped forward and Obi-Wan was struck by the slow, careful grace of his motion, as if he were holding himself on a knife's edge of vanishing control. His master's eyes held nothing of calm, nothing of serenity, and Obi-Wan hesitated, feeling lost. 

Qui-Gon drew off the heavy helmet and cast it away to clatter on the pavement. Obi-Wan blinked; there were wide wings of pure white in the hair at Qui-Gon's temples that had not been there before. Qui-Gon unclipped his cloak and let it fall. His hand ros, and his knuckles grazed Obi-Wan's cheek, testing the reality of him. His hand curved under Obi-Wan's chin, lifting his face. 

"I will not return with you, Obi-Wan." His eyes softened with the faintest touch of regret. "Do not blame yourself; the choices I have made were my own and the cost is mine to pay. You have survived and I am satisfied: the reward is sufficient for the cost. Remember that when you face the choices that will define you. The reward should always be sufficient for the cost." 

"Don't be foolish--" Obi-wan began, heated, but Qui-Gon's thumb stroked over his lips, silencing him, and Qui-Gon leaned forward slowly, careful and controlled. Obi-Wan's heart leaped to his throat, his blood kindling in a heartbeat at the thought that Qui-Gon meant to kiss him-- but his master's lips merely ghosted against his forehead, again with that infinitely deliberate sense of power and passion held in check, barely leashed. 

Qui-Gon Jinn dropped his hand and turned away. 

"The Council will not permit a dark Jedi to--" the woman tried again, stubborn. 

"I'm not interested in the Council's permission, I'm afraid." Qui-Gon dismissed her, indifferent. "Come!" he clicked his tongue at the cat that had protected Obi-Wa, and it rose from its haunches, yawning, following Qui-Gon as he strode through the wreckage of the grandstand and dismembered bodies toward the Dramacore ship that waited, engines still idling, for the end of the chase. Its dead crew would never again board and resume their duties. 

The arranhar flowed around Obi-Wan, sleek-muscled, tawny bodies calm. Tame to Qui-Gon's call, they padded up the ramp into the transport one by one. 

"Qui-Gon!" Weakened and in pain, Obi-Wan could not find anything else to say, his whole heart audible in his voice. 

His master never hesitated and never looked back. The ramp cranked up behind the last of the cats and the hatch sealed. The ship rose, inexpressibly graceful as it pirouetted and lifted above the rooftops, then darted like an arrow toward the plain, leaving Obi-Wan and the others standing in the square. 

The Jedi woman sighed. "Stubborn old fool. Can you walk? I'll help." She bracketed Gida, ducking under Obi-Wan's left shoulder. "My ship is nearby. Walek, run ahead and ready the medical kit. We've got to get the slave-minder out of him before someone remembers and uses it." 

Obi-Wan could not tear his eyes from the horizon where Qui-Gon had vanished; his legs would not work and his soul felt hollow, a numb ache where his heart should be. 

"This isn't over," Obi-Wan vowed, but even without touching the Force, he understood a long time would pass before he might see Qui-Gon Jinn again. 

Too shattered with exhaustion to protest further, Obi-Wan let himself be led away.

********************************

GLOSSARY

Arilan: Some group of people somewhere near the Galactic Core who own a hell of a lot of holotransmission emitters. 

Arranhar: "To claw" in Portuguese (Verb form used as plural noun here because it's cool-sounding). The name of the clawed species that are Dramacore's preferred pursuit predators. Singular: Arranha. I am told this also means "skyscraper" in colloquial Portuguese. So much for the language resource I used to find out its meaning! 

Bant: Master Tahl's padawan learner, Obi-Wan's best friend. 

Bilam: Male employee of Dramacore. Fat, bald, and cruel, but not too smart. Gets off on physical torture of prisoners. Wears filthy grey coverall. Not the guy you wanna be if you dislike choking. 

Birin: Generic Jedi Knight responding to Qui-Gon's call for backup on Xinune. 

Cai: Partner to Knight Birin. Generic helpful backup Jedi and faceless pawn in the horrible machinations of Lilith Sedai. 

Cido: Male prisoner of Dramacore. Also generic. 

_Damnú ort, streachailt leathair Jedi striapach!:_ Damn you, fucking (literally, 'leather stretching') Jedi whore! 

Delta 6: Obi-Wan's single-man starfighter at the time of this fic, equipped with a hyperspace ring for long-distance travel. See Wookieepedia. 

Draigon: A creature referenced in the Jedi Apprentice YA book series, these are probably pretty much just small dragons. Obi-Wan fought them as a very young man before Qui-Gon took him as his padawan. 

Dramacore: Holovid company, notorious for reality broadcasts of to-the-death gladiatorial combat and hard-core pornography. Filthy rich. Kidnaps people to make them stars. Doesn't always pay out to stars/prisoners as promised if they win. 

_Feisigh do thoin fein:_ Fuck your own ass. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Gida: Female prisoner of Dramacore, has survived one arena combat. Scarred and cynical, the most experienced of the prisoners. I based her on Zooey Deschanel, but you don't have to think of her that way if you don't like. 

_Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat:_ May the cat eat you and the devil eat the cat. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

_Go hifreann leat, cailleach:_ Go to hell, you old witch. Irish Gaelic (Djinn) 

Jata: Male Dramacore employee, thin with white, tightly-curled hair. Clever bastard who gets up to psychological games with prisoners. You don't wanna be him, either. 

Jom: Male lieutenant under Captain Kalare in King Tabare's personal guard force. 

Kalari: Female captain of King Tabare's personal guard force. 

_Ki-Gün Djinn is ainm dom:_ My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). Wow, this is a bad one; any linguist worth a damn would beat me half to death for combining fake Arabic names with words from Irish Gaelic and blaming it all on one culture. If you wanted to go through the same mental gymnastics and web inquiries I did, you'd discover this phrase means something very like "Qui-Gon Jinn is the name on me." The only justification for the Djinn using Irish Gaelic as their native language is, of course, Liam Neeson's irrepressible Irish brogue, which by default has to be the faint remnant of Qui-Gon's first language (blame George for hiring an Irishman who is constitutionally incapable of saying 'anything' instead of 'ennathin,' and then telling him he has to try to sound American). 

Maj'lis: A particularly dominant young male arranha, difficult to control. Has killed keepers. 

Majnun Djinn: One of the reclusive Djinn, an employee of Dramacore who works as chief handler for the arranhar. Majnun is Arabic for "Familiar spirit," which is, simply enough, a synonym for "Djinn." I am also told that this research was inadequate, and that Majnun means crazy/obsessive/etc. But I already had it in place, so I'm stuck with it. The only religious or political significance I intend by using "Djinn" is a vague mythological association with wizards and giants-- and George already did that anyway when he named Qui-Gon. I based Majnun on a friend of mine who has about the right body type, but who would probably kill me with his bare hands for me cursing him with long hair. And he'd have EVERY right to. Sorry, A. B. M.! 

Mirani: Female prisoner of Dramacore. 

Misi Raksen: A Jedi watchman, specializing in the culture, lore, and situations of the sector where Xinune is located. Uses a yellow lightsaber. 

_Mo Athair:_ my father. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

_Mo dheartháir:_ my brother. Irish Gaelic/Djinn. 

Nosaurian: See Nosaurian on Wookieepedia. 

Ruoto Millim: Male Dramacore employee. High level, oily, sleazebucket. Think a combination of Eddie Izzard in Velvet Goldmine and Richard Dawson in The Running Man. 

She'ba: A female arranha, old enough that she is extremely docile and agreeable by comparison to the others, but still extremely deadly and easily angered. 

Sljee: The only sentient being I could find on Wookieepedia that was bountifully equipped with the fully articulated tentacles I required for executing Jata's nefarious script. See on Wookieepedia. 

Slave minder: A small transmitter implanted in a slave, constantly transmitting the slave's location to its owner's comm console. They are rigged to explode upon removal, remote trigger, or in response to tampering, so that slaves can't cut them out and run away. 

So'lis: Majnun Djinn's preferred partner arranha. Male, very quick and agile. 

Stereme: City in which Dramacore has a facility for filming and supporting chase programs. Chases in which the target survives end here. 

_Tá tú glan as do mheabhair:_ You are completely out of your mind. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Tabare: King who calls for Jedi assistance with finding his missing son. 

Tahl: Jedi Master, Loremaster, Qui-Gon's long-time romantic interest, though they remained celibate. Blinded during her last mission as a Jedi Guardian and rescued by Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. I based her on Jada Pinkett Smith, but who knows what George thinks? 

Takat: City in which King Tabare's palace is located; government seat of his realm. 

Taq: Male prisoner of Dramacore, seems unusually perceptive and might have a small amount of Force sensitivity. Not very resilient. Based on a young Cary Elwes. 

Tiran: Prince; Tabare's son, kidnapped by Dramacore. Obi-Wan's old friend and lover. Based on a young Christian Bale. Mmmmm, pretty. 

_Titim gan éirí ort:_ May you fall without rising. Irish Gaelic (Djinn). 

Walek: 10-year-old padawan learner to Master Misi Raksen (age as of this segment of the story). 

Xinune: Planet on which Tabare is King; Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are sent there to investigate Prince Tiran's disappearance.


End file.
